The Ends Opening Into New Ends Always
by recycled-stars
Summary: New York City, 1925, Katherine Beckett walks into a joint and starts asking questions about a murder, capturing the attention of one Richard Castle. Together, they work to catch her mother's killer.  Historical AU, ensemble cast make appearances.
1. Prologue

_Author's Notes:_ Not entirely sure how it happened. I sat down to write a case file and suddenly it was set in 1925 in a speakeasy. You _must_ pretend you're watching a 1930s era black and white film while you read it otherwise it might seem stupidly melodramatic at times. (I'm sorry for that too; I've been drowning my sorrows in period dramas and old movies. But just imagine Beckett is a plucky Claudette Colbert and Castle is some weird hybrid between Clark Gable and the fall-down-drunkest/silliest Jimmy Stewart's character got in _The Philadelphia Story_ with a bit of the Lost Generation/Hemmingway thrown in there (so pretty much Castle's character in the show) and you should be right.)

Written for casestory's big bang challenge at livejournal.

* * *

><p><em>I love him, I love him, ran the patter of her lips<br>and he knew the doors that opened  
>Into doors and more doors, no end of doors.<br>_- Carl Sandburg, 1922.

_New York City. January, 1919._

It was six months after he had been sent home from France with a few extra pieces of a German shell in him as souvenirs. The injuries were painful and deforming; the left side of his face had suffered severe burns which were only beginning to properly scar and his right leg was decorated with a rough, foot-long scar that ran from his ankle to his calf. It had teeth where the surgeons had sewn him back together. He remembered sitting in the hospital for weeks, picking at the stitches and rubbing at the skin inside his cast with a ruler. The leg had healed well enough, though it ached on the coldest mornings. That wasn't why he hadn't returned to the front. After The Incident, his direct supervising officer had raised concerns with his doctors and they had agreed. The psychological stress of the war was blamed, but if anything he thrived in the bloodbath. It whittled away at some men, hollowed them from the inside out, but he was made amongst the chaos and the gunfire.

It had been torture lying in hospital cot for weeks on end while his wounds healed and after the hospital in France was a short stay in England. There he learned the only form of pain relief he found effective, the opium pipe. It numbed the body and the mind, muting the sometimes overwhelming surge of noise within his head. It was like the killing in the war had been, but quieter, more peaceful. He considered more than once taking that great passive slip into oblivion. You saw it occasionally, an addict that had gone too far at the less reputable establishments, surrounded by other addicts too strung out to care. But no, he imagined himself greater than that.

He had returned to the United States but did not go home. There was something about the monotony of the farming town where he grew up that seemed suffocating, so he set up residence in a series of flophouses on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and forged a letter to his mother informing her of his death at the front. It looked official enough and he imagined the records would contain numerous mistakes. The trenches had at times been filled with bodies. They hadn't had much time to identify them under the crack of machine gun fire.  
>He had effectively disappeared. Even he didn't recognise himself in mirrors since the fire damaged his face. He let his hair grow out until he could comb it over some of the damage but there was no hiding the scarring. Over time, uneven spidery tissue grew to replace the wound. Finally, one night he burnt the tips of his fingers in the fireplace until his finger prints were lost. As scar tissue replaced the characteristic loops and whirls that had identified him, his immersion into the underbelly was complete.<p>

He mostly pick-pocketed what he needed to survive, but soon was exceeding his monthly budget with the cost of the pipe. Without drugs, his head became unbearably loud. It was like living with constant shouting in your ear. He never quite knew where the imagined sound ended and reality began. That fog increased in pitch and built to a tension point until he felt full to bursting.

Two months after arriving in New York, he was in an alley behind a cathouse when it overcame him. A prostitute was smoking and the smell offended him. Before he could piece together the exact sequence of events he had his hand around her throat, choking her screams. His army knife was still tucked into his boot and the world went quiet. He sobbed in relief as he plunged the knife through her skirts and into her belly and sat in the alley cradling her body, letting the warm flow of blood soothe him.

After that catharsis he was reborn.

He had been in dire need of a profession and had stumbled upon a vocation he had forgotten. Slaughtering Germans had been one thing; enjoying that had even been encouraged by the army. This was different. This was an intoxicating power that only came with a fading pulse, the dilated fixed pupils staring at him, the last, hard won gurgle of air escaping the lungs of the dying. It wasn't enough to shoot, to kill from a distance; he had to see death up close to feel alive. So he sold his talents, honed after two years in Europe, to the highest bidder.

It was a lucrative business. It made sense. It kept him sane.

His leg was bothering him. He had been following a distinguished-looking woman since she left her rowhouse that morning and it was bitterly cold, the combination of which exacerbated his injury. He had hoped the job would be quick so he could make his way to Chinatown for some relief, but an opportunity had yet to present itself. He began to favour his left side.

A few blocks ahead he spotted his mark duck into a back street, likely taking a short cut home and he wandered up the nearest alley to meet her. The shadows of the buildings were long in the sinking afternoon sun. His breath rose in puffs of white. His back was against the brick wall behind him as he counted her steps.

One. Two. Three. Four.

He smiled as he turned into the alley as she approached. It would have looked to all observers to be an innocent run in, but his fingers were clasped around the knife in the front pocket of his coat. A cursory glance up and down the street told him they were alone. He put his hand over her mouth from behind, pressing the meat of a few fingers between her teeth to silence her. She bit down, hard, but he couldn't feel much in his fingers since the burns had healed.

He pulled her body against his, countering the motion with a thrust of his blade. The knife slipped easily through her lower back and met its mark, a kidney. He held her against his body until she went lax. It was an intimate position. His nose was buried in her hair. It smelled faintly of cherries. Everything within him stilled and his focussed honed on the two heartbeats he could feel. Two fingers were jammed into her neck, sensing the rapid fade of her carotid pulse. Within his own chest, adrenalin raced through his veins to his heart, causing the muscle to contract and relax with greater urgency. It echoed in his ears. The world was soundless, bearable.

When he was sure she was dead, he spun her around in a macabre dance, letting the blade rip through the front of her dress a few times at random before setting her down against the wall behind her. He wiped the knife with her skirt, replaced it inside the hidden pocket at his front and buttoned his coat to hide the bloodstains.

His business done, he shoved his red hands deep in his pockets and hurriedly made the walk home.


	2. Part I Winter

_**Part I: Winter.**_

_New York City. January, 1925._

The music was loud, but somehow the whispers were louder. They spread like the 1918 Spanish flu from the corner of the bar near the stairs all the way to the back, where Rick Castle was fishing for the answer to a long forgotten question at the bottom of a whiskey. He was about to turn and ask Ryan at the next table what all the fuss was about when he caught a glimpse of her, snow turning to water at the base of her heels as she stripped off her fur-trimmed coat. Her back was to them, but he could see the embroidery on her stockings; he followed it with his eyes as it snaked from her heels to the back of her knees where it disappeared beneath her skirt.

Ryan leant over and nudged his shoulder, but he didn't avert his eyes. "That skirt over there? She's a cop's wife. A prohi. Javier says be ready to leave in a hurry," he said, in his American-Irish lilt.

Javier Esposito was the bartender – an immigrant who'd decided providing the good people of New York City with liquor was a more profitable and all-together more agreeable than trying his luck in California or working on a production line in Detroit. He was part-man, part-legend due to some well-told lies, a reputation that kept his bar well-stocked and the less-savoury elements out of his business. When it suited him, he had an exotic accent and he could mix a mean martini. His skill behind the bar was matched only by his ability to get a secret out of a man, which he'd happily sell for the right price unless he considered you a friend. He'd been shut down eight times by the feds, but always re-opened within a week.

Castle shrugged, "She's probably here for a drink, just like the rest of us."

"Mmm," Ryan finished his in a single mouthful, "Nope, they say she's asking questions."  
>Castle rearranged the pile of shredded paper in front of him, trying to sort out useful scribbles from those he'd be happy to leave behind. "That never bodes well."<p>

"Mm, so quit your gaping and finish your drink."

He folded the appropriate papers and placed them in his pocket and took a large mouthful of whiskey. He paused suddenly when he felt someone's eyes on him but didn't look up. Instead, he studied the floor and the tops of her shoes. Ryan actually raised his hands off the table top. She rolled her eyes.

"Relax boys," she drawled, and he was afraid to do anything but. "I'm not here to spoil your fun."

He looked up and studied her face. She looked like a porcelain doll – beautiful, but deadly across a poker table. His interest had already been piqued by her figure; the air of mystery heightened it to a budding obsession. "Then what are you here for?"

She set a worn black-and-white photograph on the sticky table. "Do you recognise her?"

Castle nodded slowly, "It's you, no, a female relative. May I?"

She bobbed her head once, regarding him warily.

He turned the photograph over in his hands. It was dated, in neat script, November 1915. "She's too old to be you, and probably too old to be your older sister too. Your mother," he surmised, "But I'm sorry, I've never seen her before."

"Well you're a little young," she snatched back the picture in a single deft movement and carefully placed it in her purse. "She died – was murdered – six years ago."

"Oh?" he gave her a hint of a smile as his eyes followed the path traced by the string of pearls around her neck. They hung low between her breasts. She gave him a disapproving, impatient look. He was cataloguing details: the red curve of her lips, the soft wave of her hair behind her ear, the way her hands clutched the handle of her beaded purse. It was a bad habit he'd developed while writing his first novel. He'd study people, try to invent their stories, explaining how they got to where they were and where they were going.

She clammed up on that subject and changed tack. "Have you ever seen a Mister Lockwood or a Mister Pulgatti around here?"

Ryan coughed behind him. It sounded suspiciously like 'gangsters''.

"Those are some pretty bad names," he twisted his glass between his hands, "What's a nice girl like you going around asking questions in a gin mill like this?"

"The killer was never caught," there was a musicality to her tone but it was measured, calculated for maximum impact. She wanted information and she'd charm him to get it.

He was slowly building a character profile in his head.

"You got a name doll?"

"I do," she hedged. "What's it to you?"

"Well, murder mysteries are sort of my business." He corrected himself quickly when he noticed her horrified face. "I mean to say, I'm a mystery writer. I'd like to help," he extended her his hand, "Richard Castle."

"Katherine Beckett," she accepted and shook his fingers firmly, "Sorry, Sorenson."

"I used to forget I was married too," he grinned, "So Katherine Beckett-sorry-Sorenson, can I buy you a drink? I'd like to hear about this mystery of yours."

"Sorry Mister Castle," she pulled her hand away quickly, "I don't think that's a good idea. I have to get home."

"Well then, let me see you out," he stood and clapped Ryan on the shoulder. "I've got an idea and I have to write it down immediately."

"Don't let me keep you," Ryan smirked into his whiskey, knowingly. The second clap on the shoulder was a little more forceful than necessary.

"I'll be fine Mister Castle," Kate Beckett Sorenson shifted her weight from one foot to another.

"I'll walk you out just the same," he let his hand ghost behind her, guiding without touching.

Kevin Ryan rose and re-traced their steps after the band finished their number. He leant against the wood of the bar while Javier served a steady stream of customers and lit a cigarette. He was luxuriating in the seductive diminished seventh in a chord concluding the solo of a trumpeter from Harlem. The hand in his pocket fingered his badge. Ryan was good at his day job. He rarely drank to excess, he went to church on Sunday and he regularly wrote to his mother. His vices were modest: a whiskey worthy of the old country and some adeptly played jazz. He was more likely to fall in love with a girl than take advantage. So if he occasionally turned a blind eye for a few clams when he came across an establishment selling liquor or a barrel house, well, he still considered himself a good man, on balance.

"Did you see that?" Javier finally stole a moment to trade gossip.

Ryan nodded, "From a mile away."

"She's married," the bartender refilled his glass and waved away his money, "To a prohi."

"Mmm."

"And Ricky's already making gaga eyes at her."

"Mmm."

"And she was asking questions about some real nasty folk."

"Mmm."

"That man's gonna bring down my whole operation."

"Now now Javier, we've survived worse than a doll coming down here asking questions about a murder."

"I tell you Ryan, those two, the way he was looking at her? Ain't nothing but trouble going to come of _that_."

"Can't say I disagree with you there," Ryan knocked back his whiskey.

"Any money in the world Ricky's skulking around here tomorrow asking about her," Javier wiped the bar top and slung his cloth over his shoulder.

"I'm not a gambling man Javier," Ryan reached into his pocket and put on his gloves. Javier was already holding out his coat. He took it with a nod of thanks. "But if I was? I wouldn't take that bet."

They laughed and exchanged goodnights before Ryan traipsed up the stairs and into the dark, snow-covered street.

* * *

><p>Never one to leave well enough alone and ever one to be predictable, Richard spent the morning loitering around Javier's place, smoking and kicking up dirt. He was stuck on the events of the previous night, in particular the half hour they had spent in the freezing street waiting for her cab. She had rewarded all his attempts at conversation, flirtatious and otherwise, with rebuttals that varied from genial to caustic. She had also steadfastly refused to share any more details about the murder she was trying to solve. After she took the cigarette he offered her, they had resorted to a quasi-comfortable silence while they smoked. He'd opened the door of the cab for her, she politely wished him a good night and he had walked the ten blocks home in the freezing night air with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to figure her out. When he awoke the next morning he was still puzzling over her, so he'd dressed and come straight down to Javier's after his first coffee. Three hours later and he was starting to get impatient. Javier never worked before eleven, but it was pushing noon and he was starting to get hungry.<p>

Just as he was about to give up for the morning and stop somewhere on his way home for a sandwich, Javier pulled up in a truck full of illegal gin.

"Castle," he grinned to himself when his speculations proved correct. "I thought I might see you this morning. Come on," he lifted the canvas covering the back of his truck, "Help me unload this cargo."

Castle obliged, dragging his feet.

"There was a lady in here last night," he began, lifting his first crate and bracing it against his hip. "A real doll…"

"Mm, the fed's wife," Javier pressed his lips together in an effort to control his amusement, "Ryan said you were taken with her."

"I was not," he denied, unconvincingly. He set down his load at the back door of the speakeasy.

Javier waggled his eyebrows, knowingly. Richard scowled.

"Mrs Sorenson," he confirmed, "You know her husband?"

"Yeah, he's with the Bureau of Internal Revenue, goes around busting us up every month or so. Mostly for show of course, I've heard he's quite the regular at Louis' place down the road."

"Got an address?"

"Are you going to use it to harass that poor girl Ricky?"

"She was in last night asking about a murder," he tried his best to look affronted but really, Javier knew him too well. "So I made a few telephone calls, asked Doctor Murray down at the city morgue to have a look into it for me."

Doctor Clark Murray was well known in certain circles; a respected city ME by day and what he liked to call an experimental chemist by night, which really amounted to using a property Rick owned down around the docks to brew a wicked tasting moonshine, laced with whatever opiates the good doc could get his hands on. He was also one of Rick's prized sources of information. His foundling interest in the new forensic science made him more than willing to fill the pulp novels of the American public with the gruesome details their English counterparts abhorred and he was always available at Javier's place for a quick chat about what would happen to a man with his hand cut off or a bullet through his torso.

"Ah, the good doctor!" Javier grinned, "Did you ask him when he's bringing down his next batch? It's not for everyone, but it's certainly got a following."

Rick made a face, "That stuff is going to send people blind."

"Probably," Javier looked remarkably cheerful, "As long as they can still find the place, I don't mind. So, a married woman eh Castle? You're the worst. Did The Doc give you the goods on our lady's murder?"

"He found something," he answered, evasively. Javier looked at him imploringly. "You mind your beeswax Javier."

"Hey man, I'm a bartender. My business is everyone else's business. That doll was asking after some pretty mean fellas."

"Her mother was killed, stabbed, six years ago. And the doc says she wasn't the only one, he looked back over all the cases that crossed his slab in 1919 and came across three similar killings," he handed Javier a crisp five dollar bill, "This information stays between us, and I trust you'll clue me in if you hear anything."

"You don't need to pay me for my confidence Ricky," Javier took the bill anyway, folded it and shoved into the pocket of his slacks, "But this job don't pay well enough for me to turn down an Abe's Cabe."

"Mm, liar," he accused. "I also expect to be served the good stuff when I come by tonight."

"The lady likes gin," Javier tapped the side of his nose. "And the Sorenson's place is on West 68th and Columbus."

"Thanks Javier," Rick clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a good man."

"Beat it Castle, I gotta get to work."

He waved over his shoulder as turned down the alley, heading back to the main street.

* * *

><p>The maid answered the door on her way out for the day. She called out to the back room after the lady of the house and told him, in no uncertain terms, to wait in the sitting room and not touch anything. He did the first, but ignored the second and was hurriedly trying to replace a pile of William Sorenson's mail at the writing desk in the corner when she entered the room.<p>

"Mister Castle," she was surprised to see him, "What are you doing here?"

"Is that any way to treat a guest?" he chided, "Mrs Sorenson, lovely to see you."

"How did … " she began then shook her head, "No, I don't want to know and given where I found you, I'm guessing you probably don't want to tell me. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but I don't understand why you're here."

"Can we talk?" he gestured to the couch in the centre of the room, "I mean, is anybody else here?"

"No Mister Castle," she smoothed her skirt with her palms as she sat, gesturing for him to the same, "My husband is at work and you saw Elsa leave. Why?"

"Last night," he leant back into the chair, fingers moving absently over the patterned fabric, "You were in a hurry to get home, and your husband is a cop. I'm guessing he doesn't know about this little investigation of yours?"

She turned to look at him, choosing her words. "No," she affirmed, "Will doesn't know. I didn't think he would approve."

"Understandable," he grinned at her, "Beautiful woman like you going around town to some of the shadiest drums in the city alone? I wouldn't stand for it if you were my wife."

She bristled. "Luckily for you, I'm not."

"Oh I doubt that," he gave her a brief once over out of the corner of his eyes.

"And I don't need protecting," she continued hurriedly, to disguise her embarrassment. "If that's why you're here."

"No I don't expect you do," he assured her, "And that's not why I'm here. I told you, murder is my business Mrs Sorenson. I'm here for the story, and yours intrigued me."

Their eyes met for a moment too long; he caught something in her expression and latched onto it and she spent a minute trying to puzzle him out. She felt like Edison's carbon filament inside a vacuum, humming with an unseen current, about to burn. Swallowing slowly, she blinked twice then dropped her eyes to stare at her hands.

"So," he continued, staring at the wall behind her head, "I asked around about a Mrs Beckett who was murdered in 1919 on your behalf."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow at him.

"I've got a guy," he smirked. "Do you want to know what he found or not?"

"Ok Mister Castle," the teasing note in her voice was returned. "I'll make you a wager. You manage to tell me something I don't already know, and I'll agree to let you help me."

"Deal," he held his hand, which she shook once.

"Ok," he pulled a wad of papers from his coat, "Here. There were three other murders in the year your mother was killed; all three were committed in the same manner and it's my contact's professional opinion that they were committed by the same person."

A slew of black and white crime scene photographs spilled across the carpet as he handed her the file. She stared at the images at her feet for a moment, bending to let her fingertips trace the wounds that killed her mother. He scrambled to pick the others up off the floor, stacking them like a deck of cards. She picked up a single photograph, showing her mother's eerily still face.

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, holding out the wad of photographs as a kind of peace offering.

"I'm not some dumb Dora who's going to cry on your shoulder Mister Castle," she said in a measured tone, but he saw the shine of tears in her eyes as she turned the picture over and slapped it against her thigh. She blinked furiously twice and met his gaze, defiant. "I didn't know about the other murders, so I'll let you help me, but this is mine, my mother's murder, and I don't want some cake-eating amateur dick breezing in and stealing leads out from under me. We're partners, equals, and you don't have to coddle me."

"Pardon me partner," his voice was low, and the words were clearly meant only for her even though they were alone. "I never doubted it."

Humbled by his reaction she took a breath and nodded once, "Ok then."

"But let me just say, if it was me looking at pictures like this of my mother?" their fingers met as she took the pictures from his hand and he let the contact linger, "I'd be a mess. There's no shame in it."

"We're not well acquainted Mister Castle," she explained herself unnecessarily. "And I prefer to keep my grief private."

"Very well. I just wanted you to know, I don't consider any sign of emotion to be a weakness. In fact I think it takes rather a lot of strength to be exposed in that way and carry on as if you weren't."

"You mentioned you were a writer," she gave him a long, amused look complete with a sly smile, "Is this propensity to make attempts at poetic speeches a symptom of that madness?"

He took the barb in his stride and rewarded her with the grin of a co-conspirator in the unspoken game they played, "I suppose so."

"These papers, are they the police files on the other murders you uncovered?" she returned to business after a moment of mutual amusement. She found herself immediately easy with him in an odd sort of way; it wasn't that she'd trust him further than she could throw him nor did she peg him for a virtuous man, but she felt assured of their respective positions, as though she could count on him to react in the way she expected. Besides, as a wordsmith, he was a worthy sparring partner. She enjoyed the sport of their conversation. He found himself drawn to her, literarily and otherwise, though he tried to forget the latter and focus on the former. Prose was forming behind his eyes in the silences, endless streams of words describing their interactions. It was part of the burden of his craft: the never-ending narration of one's own life. He tried to occupy his mind with the facts at hand.

"Yes," he affirmed, "We're ah, _borrowing_them without permission, though my contact says since the cases are closed or cold they won't be missed. I'll make notes and return them after you're done with them."

"You've read them yourself of course," she stated more than asked, but he took it for a question, "Yes, though without doing some digging of our own it's hard to tell if there's a solid connection between the victims, other than, of course, the manner in which they were killed. You might be able to help with that – did you know your mother's friends well?"

"I was seventeen when she died," she told him, "It was before I married Will. I was well-acquainted with several of her friends, especially her political associates."

His silence was questioning in and of itself.

"My mother was a suffragette Mister Castle," she explained, "She was heavily involved in the National Woman's Party before her death."

"So were two of our other victims," he exclaimed excitedly in response, quickly making the connection in his head. "A Diana Cavanaugh, who was tragically killed on," he reached into the pile of papers and retrieved the appropriate file, "Sunday March 7th 1919, near 65th and Amsterdam and Jennifer Stewart, who was killed on May 21st in Central Park."

"I'm not familiar with those names," she tilted her head to one side, as though straining to recall her every acquaintance. "My father kept all of my mother's old things. They're at the old house; I can look for them when I visit him this week. She kept a diary for appointments and an address book."

"Do you recognise the other name?" he pressed on, undeterred, "Scott Murray?"

"Mister Murray was a family friend, a lawyer who worked with my grandfather and assisted my mother's organisation in petitioning Congress. I thought he was killed in a bar fight," she flipped through the file, "It says here the murder was attributed to a known criminal who he had failed to keep out of prison several years before. He was stabbed four times outside a bar, now closed of course, on the same day Miss Cavanaugh was killed."

"My contact, we call him the Doc down at Javi's, is a city medical examiner. He looked over the files and he believes this man was killed by the same man who murdered your mother. Look at the evidence used to convict the alleged murderer – they found the bloody knife in his apartment? He was a known criminal, who had escaped felony charges on numerous occasions. It seems unlikely he'd make such an obvious error."

"If the motive was revenge, he could have been in an emotional state," she countered, "But I concede your point. It all aligns very neatly, and if you look at the dates on the file, the police barely investigated. The case was open all of three days. There were no witnesses to the attack, but the convicted man failed to provide a solid alibi and was seen at the bar in question that night."

She laid the file she had been examining out on the table and folded her hands in her lap. "But this new information provides me with some clear leads. I wasn't having much luck tracking down the men I mentioned to you last night."

"And you should be thankful," he informed her shortly, "How did you come across those names?"

"I received a letter in the mail a few weeks ago," she got up and went into the other room for a few minutes and returned with an opened envelope containing a single sheet of paper. In neat script, it mentioned two names, Hal Lockwood and Joe Pulgatti. It was unsigned. He turned the envelope over in his hand – the overside was blank.

"It isn't postmarked," he noted.

She nodded. "It came after the regular mail, while I was visiting the library a few days ago."  
>"Intriguing, an anonymous tip delivered in person," he stroked the paper thoughtfully, "That's almost scary. He knows where you live."<p>

"You assume it's from a 'he'," she took it from him and replaced the letter in its non-descript envelope.

"True," he acknowledged his assumption gracefully, "So, what's our next move?"

"Well it's obvious you don't think I should be following up on the letter," she began, "Which ordinarily would just make me more determined to do it, but since you're here and you've volunteered to help and you're obviously a little scared by the big bad gangsters I think I'll let you handle that," there was something about the way she smiled through it that took the sting out of her words, or maybe he was just sweet on her. He'd always had a weakness for strong, attractive women. It was probably Freudian, but he'd never thought it a good idea to consider it in that much detail or apply the novel theories of psychoanalysis to anything but his characters.

"And I will visit my father tomorrow afternoon and sort through my mother's things for any hint of these names you've uncovered."

"Ooh, can I help?" he looked far too enthusiastic at the prospect of clearing dust and cobwebs off a few small boxes in her father's house.

"And how will I explain you following me like a shadow to my father?" she raised an eyebrow, in a way he was beginning to think she should patent. (It was quintessentially_her_though, so remaining original wasn't much of a concern. He didn't know an actress who could copy it if she tried, and he knew far too many actresses.) "No," she determined resolutely, "Besides, I'm sure you'll be busy pursuing your own avenues of investigation."

"Not really," he shrugged, "I'll go down to Javier's, ask Javier for the goods, follow up on that with Kevin Ryan and that'll be that."

"And you expect this to yield information?" again with the incredulous tone. He was beginning to think she didn't take him seriously.

"It's never failed," he boasted. "And if it does, I have a few contingency plans."

"Good," she finally approved of something he had said. "How will you tell me what you find?"

"I expect I'll meet you someplace," he was being wilfully literal.

"You want me to meet you at that speakeasy your friend runs don't you?" she furrowed her brow. He wanted to reach out and smooth the lines in her expression, as though that would ease their underlying cause.

"People have a way of forgetting what they see go on down at Javier's," he laid out his reasons. "In a way that neighbourhood gossips don't. You might want to make less of entrance this time, but otherwise, I don't expect we'll attract much attention."

"Fine," she said, "Tomorrow night at eight. But I expect answers."

"I'll do my best."

"Thank you," she stacked the papers neatly and held them in the crook of her arm when they stood. "I don't think I ever said that. Not many people would take such an interest in the worries of a complete stranger. I'm not sure if that makes you incredibly generous or just a little odd."

He offered her his hand before he opened the front door, "You're more than welcome."

"Good afternoon Mister Castle."

"Until tomorrow Mrs Sorenson," he tipped his hat to her with a knowing smirk, "And why can't it be both?"

She decided it certainly could be as she closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p>Katherine Beckett Sorenson had a key to her father's house and her childhood home but she rang the bell just the same. Lanie Parish, who answered the door, was more a member of the family than a maid. They had been girls together – Lanie's mother had done her job before her – and Kate considered her a confidante and the closest thing she had a sibling. She took her arm as she stepped through the doorway, "Lanie."<p>

"Oh girl, you look fantastic. Who made that hat?" Lanie pulled it down around her ears with a grin, "It's divine."

Kate pressed her lips together and pulled it off, smoothing her hair with gloved hands. She handed it to her friend, "I don't know, there's probably a label on the inside. I'll buy you one for your birthday. Is my father home?"

Lanie twisted the hat between her hands, "He is, but he's still asleep."

"He's drinking again," she surmised, walking through the hall into the kitchen, heels voicing her disapproval against the hardwood.

"Don't be too hard on him," Lanie murmured as she entered the room after her. "You know he was never the same after your mother died."

"That was years ago Lanie," she pulled off her gloves and set them down on the kitchen table, "And I miss her too, but I can't pick him up off the floor of every drum in the city anymore."

"I know love," Lanie patted her shoulder. "Sit down. I'll make tea."

She nodded her assent and sat at her father's kitchen table.

"So a little birdie told me a certain writer paid you a visit the other day," Lanie sing-songed, lighting the stove and putting the kettle on. She rummaged in the cupboards for tea.

"Mister Castle," she said, amused. "Yes. And who might that little birdie have been?"

"You know my people, they gossip. Nellie heard from Dorothy who heard from Dolores who heard from her mother who works for the folk across the hall from you."

"Well, with that many links in the chain, I don't doubt the tale was highly embellished."

"I heard that he visited you when you were home alone, he stayed for just over an hour, and he left looking… satisfied."

"Lanie."

"Oh shh, no one would blame you honey. Will hasn't been the same since the war."

"Lanie it wasn't like that. And, I told you those things in confidence."

"I haven't told a soul," she turned and raised her hand as though swearing on the Bible, "With Jesus as my witness. And you know I don't mean Will any disrespect. But if it wasn't like that, what was it like?"

"Lanie remember how I told you I overheard those men talking about my mother's murder when I went after my dad on New Year's Eve?" she let her thumb trace her cuticles to busy her hands, "I told you I went back asking questions and it was a dead end, but I got a letter, a few weeks back. It didn't say much. It just said that if I wanted to know what happened to my mother I should look for two men."

"And one of those men was our writer?"

"No," she half-laughed. "Gosh, no. I went down to the kind of place where one finds information about men like that and that's when I met Mister Castle. He … he offered to help."

"Really?" Lanie raised an eyebrow.

"We'll see," she gave her a measured smile; "I'm meeting him tonight to see what he found out today."

"And you're sure you don't need a chaperone?"

The kettle whistling saved her from having to answer that not-very-serious enquiry.

"I don't know what to make of him," she confessed, fingers running along a grain in the wood where the paint was chipping. "He seems… different."

"You mean he's a little peculiar?" Lanie poured water from the kettle and dunked the bags a few times. "Creative types can be a little, you know," she made a 'crazy' gesture beside her temple, "Odd."

"No," she took the cup that was offered and leant back in the chair. "That's not what I meant. He's just a mixture of extremes," she blew steam off the top of the cup and set it down on the table to let it steep. "And every new thing I learn about him is completely at odds with my first impression."

"Maybe you shouldn't judge an author by his cover," Lanie suggested sagely, putting milk and sugar in her tea.

"I'm rarely ever wrong."

"Honey, if you let them, people will always surprise you."

"Perhaps. In this case, I'll reserve my final judgement until I see what he turns up."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Lanie voiced her concerns for the hundredth time, "Going around chasing after a murderer?"

"She was my mother Lanie. I can't just let it go," her voice was heavy with the weight of that burden.

"I'm not saying you should. I'm just trying to make sure you don't go and get yourself killed with your gumshoeing."

"Speaking of," she crossed her ankles under her chair, "Are mom's things still in the cupboard under the stairs?"

Lanie nodded. "You know he'd never let me throw them away. Why?"

"Because that's my next step," she said, "Castle has a contact with the police department. He found three similar murders around the same time and I want to check for a personal connection between them. We already have one. Castle's contact thinks Scott Murray was murdered by the same killer."

"No kidding," Lanie warmed her hands against the ceramic of her cup, "Well everything's exactly the same as it's always been honey. I have to fix breakfast for your father after we finish this."

"Breakfast? Lanie, it's after twelve."

"He was out late."

"Well tell him I'm here. I'd like to speak with him."

"You're going to lecture him again and put him in a foul mood," Lanie looked displeased. "And then I'll have to spend all afternoon 'yes sir'-ing and 'no sir'-ing and he'll tip me twenty clams to sit around here all evening waiting for him to come home."

"Twenty dollars'll buy you one of those fancy hats you like so much," she tried to keep the irritation with her father out of her tone, "So hush."

"Well if you must, you must."

"Lanie, you know he can't keep on the way he has been. There's probably more liquor in his personal stash that at any blind pig in this town. And mores the point, what about his health?"

"I know," she stood and put her cup in the sink, "I'll be here if you need me."

"I know," she smiled. "I'll be in the hall closet."

Lanie nodded and shooed her from the room by waving her arms.

* * *

><p>She spent the afternoon sorting through her mother's things – photographs and jewellery and letters – and pleading with her father. By the time she left, she was exhausted and running late. Her husband was outside the city on business, so that wasn't a concern, but finding the time to change and pin her hair and paint her face appropriately was. She made a quick job of it, shimming out of her day dress and into a more appropriate, knee-length beaded gown. She twisted her curls around her fingers, trying to smooth them but gave up in a frustrated huff. Within twenty minutes, she was on her way to Javier's, only half an hour behind time.<br>There was a perspiring inch of gin sitting on the table beside him when she arrived. His whiskey was in his hand.

"Well," he set it down and stood when he saw her, "Mrs Sorenson, don't you look swell?"

"Hello Mister Castle," she said by way of greeting, giving him a funny look at the compliment and eyeing the drink suspiciously. "I'll have you know, I don't accept drinks from strange men."

"I'm Richard Castle, novelist. My mother is Martha Rogers. I live on the Upper West Side with her and my daughter, Alexis. I served in the 2nd division of the AEF in the war. I don't like Brussels sprouts and my favourite colour is blue. There, not a stranger, drink up."

"Oh but you're still strange," her lips curved at the sides ever-so-slightly as she slid onto the stool next to him.

The ice in her glass clinked against the sides. She turned the liquid over in her mouth with her tongue. It was pleasantly bitter. "So," she set the glass down and clasped her hands in her lap, "What did you find?"

"Not a whole lot on Lockwood," he admitted, "But nothing can often be very revealing. That name struck fear in the hearts of some of the most hardened criminals in this town – so much so that no one was willing to talk."

She looked displeased with that result. "Well, that won't help us much. You couldn't track him down?"

He choked on his whiskey. "When people like that are afraid of a man? I make it my business to stay out of his way. But I did ask where I might find him and no one knows. It seems he's a bit of an enigma around these parts."

"What about Joe Pulgatti?"

"Oh, well there I did find something. Pulgatti is in the big house," his eyes lit up as he began spinning the tale. She watched with a kind of admiring curiosity as he practiced his craft.

"And he has been since before your mother died. He's not our killer."

"What was he in for?"

"Murdering a policeman," he flicked through a notebook he pulled from his pocket, "In 1913. He's been in prison ever since."

"I'm surprised he didn't get the chair."

"He put the finger on some of his associates. The real wonder is that he wasn't killed in the cooler. The people I talked to were not his biggest fans. I got the police file on his case," he tapped the front of his coat, "From Detective Ryan, but I won't give them to you here. Something's fishy though. The police arrested Pulgatti out of nowhere, and all the evidence linking him to the murder was found afterwards. I think we should pay him a visit in Sing Sing."

"I'd prefer to exhaust our options within the city first," she traced patterns in the condensation on her glass with the top of her finger. "Or we'll have to wait until Will is out of town again. He's got some big investigation down in Atlantic City at the moment."

"Is he away often?" he said with measured disinterest as he palmed his whiskey.

"Since he's been with the Bureau he goes away every few months," she hedged, "Which should be convenient if we have to do field work. Do you have anything else?"

"Just an empty glass and a burning desire to find out the truth," he stood, "I'm going to buy us another round, and then I want to hear about what you've found."

"I…" she started the protest, but he was already gone. She rolled her eyes into her gin and tapped her foot along with the music. She noticed Kevin Ryan standing by the bar, staring at her and looked down self-consciously. Castle returned, not too soon by her count, and set down their refilled glasses.

"Who's our friend?" she nodded towards Ryan.

"That's just Ryan," Castle sent a displeased look in the Mulligan's direction. "He's my contact in the police. He's an Irishman; I'll have a word with him about minding his potatoes."

"Oh," she ran her hands along her skirt, "No. I'm just glad he's a friend. The way he was staring was giving me the heebie-jeebies."

"He's harmless," Castle assured her and pushed her drink in her direction. "Now, your turn; did you find your mother's datebook?"

She reached in between them for her purse and pulled out a small, leather-bound black book. "Yes and her address book, though none of the names you found were in there, except for Mister Murray's, as I expected."

"She didn't have Miss Cavanaugh's address?"

"No. My mother was meticulous; if she knew someone, they would have been in that book."

"So they were involved in the same political movement, but they didn't know each other."

"It's possible they had met," she mused, "But it's also entirely possible they hadn't. The only way to tell will be to question the ladies. I'll pay some of them a visit."

"What about the datebook? Where there any appointments that seemed strange in the days leading up to her death?"

"I've never been able to figure out her system," she admitted, "It's a cipher worthy of a secret agent, and it was several years ago now so my memory of her appointments around that time is limited. But her death was a shock Mister Castle; nothing indicated to my father or me that anything was amiss."

"Secret agents you say," he pondered that for a moment, "You're sure she wasn't a spy? I mean there were lots of lady spies during the war, femme fatales stealing secrets from the Jerries."

"Try to be serious Mister Castle," she traced the rim of her glass to remove her lip rogue; "My mother wasn't a spy. She never set a foot west of the Appalachians or south of the Mason-Dixie Line."

"Right, so we don't know how the murders are connected."

"Or if they're even connected."

"True, the doc, that's the man who looked over your mother's file, thinks it's the work of a professional. He says he killed with a single blow and the other wounds were just to cover his tracks."

"Making it look like the work of an amateur when the coroner looked over the body," she surmised.

"Exactly," he nodded.

"So it could have been someone who was hired, someone who does this for a living."

"Yes, but my instinct tells me they're connected," he tapped his notepad with his fingers,

"Except for your mother, they all happened within a two week time frame. I'm sure if we dig deeper we'll uncover a connection between the victims."

"I can ask some of the ladies what they know about the two women," she was thinking, he could see her thoughts ordering themselves behind her expression. "And Scott Murray was survived by his wife and daughter. I know them both. His daughter and I went to school together as girls. I'll make arrangements for us to visit them."

"Us?" he quirked an eyebrow, but it was an expression that better suited her.

She made a face, "I thought you wanted to help."

"Aren't you worried it'll be the talk of the town?" he teased.

"Do you want to come or not?" she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Yes, of course."

"Well, you've proven you can be moderately useful, so to hell with the town and its talk," she stood and left a bill on the table, "Now, it's late and I have to go. I'll send a note with Elsa when we need to meet again."

"I'll walk you out," he stood.

She gave him a look, "That won't be necessary. Good night Mister Castle."

"Until tomorrow," he said, absently, as she shook his hand.

He watched her back as she ascended the stairs to the street until Ryan began snapping his fingers in his field of vision. He rewarded his friend with a sour look.

"Oh Ricky," Ryan smirked into a whiskey, "You're a hopeless case."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, "And you could be more subtle, you nearly scared her half to death with your gaping."

"Just looking out for my friend."

"So how much did you overhear with your strategic lurking?"

"Enough."

"She's a bearcat when she gets going."

Instead of responding, Ryan leant back on his stool and appraised him with a smug look on his face.

"What?"

"Oh, you _are _sweet on her."

"I am not."

"Mmm, yes you are."

"Well she's married."

"That's never stopped you before."

"She'd slap me into next week for getting fresh."

"Neither has that."

"It doesn't matter, because I have no untoward designs. I just want to help."

"Sure."

"Oh dry up Ryan."

"I'm just saying, watch yourself. Pretty girl like that'll have a sap like you falling over your own feet within a week."

"Says you."

"Says that wedding ring you've got in your pocket and the little lassie at home. Not to mention all the charity cases you've kept over the years."

"You mean my mother?" he joked. "Look, I'm going to need your help with this. Your disapproval is noted, but I can count on you when we need you right?"

"Ricky, much like my warnings always go unheeded, your colossally bad decisions have never even tempted me away from your corner."

They shared a friendly smile.

"To tell you the truth, I'm more tempted to stand back and let you get yourself into hot water. It's endlessly amusing."

"Thanks Ryan."

He raised his glass, "Here to help."

* * *

><p>They visited Scott Murray's widow on a Thursday in February. She was an attractive woman in her forties, and she greeted Kate like a daughter. Castle had been regarded with some suspicion at first, until he mentioned the title of his latest novel at which point she had become much warmer and confessed she was a fan. His ego appreciated the compliment. Kate rolled her eyes when she noticed just how much he enjoyed the praise. Turning the conversation to murder was an unpleasant business, but it flowed naturally when she explained that Castle was helping her investigate her own mother's death.<p>

"You don't think they could have been connected dear?" Mrs Murray exclaimed, spoon clinking against her good china as she served tea.

"Well, my mother was assisting Mister Murray with the petition to Congress at that time," Kate reminded her, "And Mister Castle's friend the medical examiner believes they were killed by the same person, due to the nature of the wounds."

"Well I suppose it was only a few months after Johanna died," the older woman puzzled over the new information with her tea cup halfway to her mouth, "Such a nasty business. Mister Murray's old papers are all in the study. If you think it will help you, you're welcome to have a look dear."

"Thank you," Kate smiled politely.

Castle, of course, blundered on without consideration. "Did Mister Murray ever discuss his work with you ma'am?"

Kate turned and shot him a warning glance, not wanting the invitation to inspect his personal papers rescinded.

"Oh no dear," the widow laughed, "I'm much too simple for all that. Johanna did good work, and I tried to help as best I could, but I'm afraid I don't have much of a mind for politics. Now that you mention it though, your mother did call a few times before she died. I really couldn't say when, but I do remember thinking it very strange when we heard the news, that I had seen her not the day before and served her tea. It was such a common thing, you see, that I would never do again. But you must know what I mean dear," Mrs Murray patted her on the arm. Kate tried her best to look properly wistful.

They finished their tea and were shown to the study. Mrs Murray told them she'd be in the kitchen and to call her if she was required then left them alone.

Castle was quite taken with her. "She seems quite helpful," he began appraising Mister Murray's bookshelves.

Kate sat in the leather chair behind the desk and ran her finger though the soft layer of dust that had collected over the years. "Yes well, you say that now. She certainly seemed unfazed when I mentioned that I was investigating my mother's death. But I'm sure she'll have a lot to say about it in other circles."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, "What does that mean?"

"That means, Mister Castle," her head was hidden from view as she inspected every nook and cranny of the mahogany desk, "That I'm sure she'll be gossiping to her friends as soon as we leave, telling them that I'm about the town with a stranger doing a man's job because my husband can't give me a child."

When her face became visible again she looked properly indignant. "As though that's the only reason I might want to catch my mother's killer."

Castle tactfully turned back to his study of the bookcase.

"I can't find anything in here," she patted her hair back into position and leant back with a sigh of frustration, "Just his ledger and an appointment book. He did meet with my mother several times in the months before her death, but I already knew that. They were working on documents for the suffrage movement."

"Are you sure that's not why they were killed? The lawyer that worked on the draft and three women heavily involved in the suffrage movement? Maybe someone who didn't want women to win the vote intervened."

"The movement had gained a great deal of momentum by that point Mister Castle. The deaths of four relatively unimportant players made no difference to the outcome."

"Is there any mention of the other two victims in his appointment book?"

She flipped through quickly, "No. What are you doing over there?"

He had pulled out a copy of _The Awakening_and held it up for her to examine.

She shook her head once, "I've not heard of it."

"Surely you were told not to read it because of the scandal it caused," he opened to the first chapter, "The American _Madame Bovary_. Society wasn't too keen on it. Women writing about sex is unseemly, you see."

"Men are afraid they might learn something," she arched an eyebrow, half-amused.

He flipped through the tome and stopped halfway, making a small excited noise.

"What is it?" she enquired, half-curious, half-dreading the salacious response she was sure was coming.

"Letters," he pulled them from the centre of the book and replaced it on the shelf, "Addressed to a Mister Scott Murray from one Johanna Beckett."

She was up and out of the chair before he had a chance to open a single one, and pulled them from his hands eagerly. Silently, they both began to read.

She devoured the first she opened ferociously, fingers brushing the dried ink that formed her mother's familiar script. "Well these are definitely from my mother," she told him absently.

"And they're all about your Joe Pulgatti," he added, folding his second letter carefully and replacing it in the envelope.

"They're so vague," she groaned, refolding the last letter and shoving it into the envelope more forcefully than was necessary. "They hint that she has more information, but never reveal it. And I certainly get the impression that he sent her some interesting responses."

"You didn't find any letters from Mister Murray in your mother's things?"

"No. I found some old love letters from my father and some from her sister, but other than that she didn't seem to keep her correspondence."

"It's clear from what I read that she thought Pulgatti was innocent," he mused, "And from the dates, it's clear that Mister Murray wasn't interested the first three times she wrote him."

"Which means sometime in the December of 1918 she must have found something to pique his interest," Kate concluded, "Because here, she writes to wish him Merry Christmas and later thanks him for looking into the matter."

"And within six months, they're all dead."

Kate put the letters in her purse, "Don't tell Mrs Murray we took anything."

He held his hands up in surrender. "I don't understand how female society works."

"It's exactly the same male society," she told him primly, "But instead of guns and fists we use carefully chosen words."

She gave Mrs Murray the sweetest smile he had ever seen when they wished her goodbye. If he didn't know better, he'd think she thought the world of the other woman. It seemed to him that while guns and fists had their shortcomings, they leant relationships a certain clarity.

* * *

><p>It took them two weeks, all told, to track down and visit Diana Cavanaugh and Jennifer Stewart's families. After a minor break-and-enter involving her using a hair pin to jimmy the lock to the National Woman's Party's members' files, they had questioned Diana Cavanaugh's mother and Jennifer Stewart's sister in short order. The only interesting piece of information to come out of the meetings was that Diana had worked as a document clerk at the courthouse where Joe Pulgatti's trial had been held.<p>

All their leads were pointing them 30 miles up the Husdon to Joe Pulgatti. Castle was impatient to visit the prisoner, but Kate was stalling. Will Sorenson had returned from his business in Atlantic City, and was expected to remain in New York until the end of the month.

In his frustration, Castle had taken to writing elaborate solutions to the mystery nightly. With each passing draft, the twists and turns got more convoluted and the killer more unlikely. Something did come from his late night scribbling: the outline of a new novel about a lady detective who bore several striking similarities to Katherine Sorenson. He divided his time for the rest of February between pacing the hall waiting for her to send for him and writing furiously. The result was a half-finished novel and the nagging sense that he should ask her permission to so obviously base a character on her and a story on their work.

In the end, he sent her a letter. It was three pages long and he slipped in the news about the novel about halfway and finished with paragraphs and paragraphs of entirely transparent praise. He was hoping she would forget about it entirely by the time she was done reading, or at least want to kill him less.

She sent him a note in response. It said: _meet me Javier's on the sixteenth_. Homer she was not. At least she'd asked to meet him somewhere that sold liquid courage. He had the feeling he would need some good old-fashioned anaesthesia before she boxed him about the ears.

He met Ryan early in the evening and related his predicament over dinner. The Irishman sat back with a wide grin on his face and sipped his wine. "Oh Ricky."

"She's going to be mad isn't she?"

"Likely."

"It's not like I _meant _for this to happen," he insisted.

"How much is fact and how much is fiction?" Ryan winked at him.

"You mean have a I written any love scenes between the protagonists?"

"You know me too well."

"Err. Yes. But they're chaste!"

"Really?"

"Mostly."

"She's going to kill you," Ryan looked incredibly happy at the prospect, "And I'm not even going to have to arrest her, because it's justifiable homicide."

"Look, I'll cut out _those _bits before the publishing house sees it."

Ryan laughed, "Oh Ricky. You don't get it at all. It doesn't matter. Everyone who knows her and who knows you is going to fill in the blanks."

"You mean they'll assume we're, you know, intimate."

"You're writing her a love letter."

"I am not. It's a murder mystery. The body is decapitated. Very gruesome. Hardly the stuff of great romance."

"If you say so," Ryan finished his wine and refilled their glasses.

An hour or so later, the Irishman was happily drunk and Castle was secretly dispensing of his glass into Ryan's at every opportunity. It wouldn't do to be overly lubricated when the impending doom finally arrived. She was prompt, as usual, and she'd barely made it halfway down the stairs before Javier had a gin on the rocks waiting at the end of the bar. She raised an eyebrow at the bartender. He grinned, "Rick insisted."

"I'm sure he did," she pressed her lips together and plucked the glass off the counter. "Fine. Thank you Mister Esposito."

When she approached, Castle tried to subtly hint that Ryan should make himself scarce, but hints weren't getting him anywhere. Finally he told him to beat it, and Ryan sulked over to the bar where Javier fixed him a black coffee.

"Mister Castle," she announced herself from behind him, and even though he knew she was coming and at what time to expect her, he froze. She sat opposite him and took a sip of her drink.

He looked at her, guilty as sin, and didn't even spare a moment to greet her before he launched into an apologetic speech.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask you sooner," he managed before running into difficulty thinking of words, "I know... well... I promise you I had no intention of writing about you when we met."

"No names," she said after she had been silent long enough to watch him squirm a little, "And try not to make it too obvious."

"That's all you have to say?"

"What else can I say? You're free to write about what you like. I can't stop you."

"Well, it's just that I've had such chronic writer's block since I published the last novel. And working with you these past few weeks has proven very inspiring."

"I can't imagine why. It's hardly been exciting."

"Well that's not true, we've made some progress," he argued. "And besides, it's mostly... you."

She looked appalled.

"No, it's not like that. You just ... you intrigue me, that's all. And you're an interesting woman."

"That's a compliment I suppose."

"It is. You're like a muse."

"I don't know if that's laden with the implications I think it is," she said, eyebrows at their full height, "But I assure you, I have little interest in being your muse Mister Castle."

"No, no implications," he flashed her his most charming smile, which he was beginning to realise did actually work on her, even though she pretended otherwise. "A reluctant muse then."

She looked faintly amused but hid her smile by taking a sip of her gin. "If you must, you must."

"I'd prefer it if you were just a little bit flattered."

"Flattered? Do you know what people are going to say about me? What they're already saying about me?"

"They've said worse about me."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Look, my mother doesn't know who my father is. Trust me, my life began as a scandal and I've had more than my share since. The trick is to not let it get to you. If there's one thing you can count on in this town it's that someone else will do something more interesting to draw attention away from you by the end of the week. Besides, I haven't even sent the idea to my publisher yet."

"I want to read it," she demanded. "Before anyone else."

"You can have power of veto," he assured her, "Within reason."

"I've read your other books," she confessed, "They're good. You know how to draw in a reader."

"I sense a but coming."

"You're not a poet," she shrugged. "I like that though. Too much literature is dripping in poetry. Prose dealing with that kind of subject matter should be uncomplicated."

"I like to think I have my moments," his feathers had been ruffled.

She smiled to smooth them. "You do."

"So, reluctant muse, do you want to dance?"

"Don't push your luck Mister Castle."

She did their usual dance though: a bill on the table and a fuss over him helping her with her coat, their footsteps precisely choreographed over the several times they had met at Javier's. She adjusted the strap of her purse and shook his hand, and he leant against the bar while she sauntered up the stairs. It was always the same. He wondered if she noticed.

_End Part I._


	3. Part II Spring

_**Part II: Spring.**_

_New York City. April, 1925._

With time all things change. In April, New York began the slow trudge through the slush of melting snow and out of a cold winter. At the turn of seasons, Will Sorenson was permanently assigned to Atlantic City for three months. Kate Beckett Sorenson had mixed feelings that begot more mixed feelings about the assignment. On the one hand, she was genuinely sad to see her husband go and promised to write to him whenever she had the chance. At the same time, his absence meant a thrilling independence and the ability to investigate her mother's murder freely. So there was also a certain happy anticipation that brought with it guilt, and the guilt added to her sadness and thus the cycle was complete.

The day he left she kissed him goodbye and leant against the closed door, she realised the guilt and the sadness where only motions she went through. It was the right thing to do, so she did it. (She had spent much of her marriage to Will doing the right thing. This secret was her first.)

Her mother had once counselled her against marrying Will. He had wanted to marry her at once, before he went away to the war, but her mother told her to wait, at least until he got home, that marriage to the wrong man would cage her and that if she wanted to be free and independent she should choose a partner carefully. But she was seventeen, and it seemed so romantic and exciting, to have a sweetheart going away to the war. So she had told him yes. She had never regretted the decision until she received the letter in January. Will was many things; he treated her well and he loved her as best as he could. He did not, however, think she had any business trying to catch a killer and he had told her as much in 1919 when he returned from the war to find her obsessively collating the details of her mother's death. In the midst of her grief she didn't see it as the warning sign it was: Katherine Beckett had never liked being told what to do or how she should think.

After she had finished the coffee on the stove and rinsed the pot, she decided to call in on Castle and arrange to take a trip to see Joe Pulgatti. Interviewing the gangster had long been on their list of leads, and as a means of information into her mother's death, the city had long been exhausted. It was a brisk sunny day, the last stand of winter, and she drew her coat around her as she walked.

Castle's mother answered the door. They hadn't met before, but when she introduced herself the ginger-haired woman's face lit up in recognition. "Oh dear, you must come in, Richard's told us all about you."

And with that, she was tucked under Martha's arm and guided into the sitting room, one of the family. She was surprised and touched by the acceptance.

"I'll tell Richard you're here," she patted her on the arm, "Would you like anything? Tea?"

She shook her head no, and rearranged her skirt.

Castle appeared before his mother had a chance to call him, having heard them in the hallway.

"Mrs Sorenson," he waved her off when she started to stand to shake his hand, "Mother, this is Mrs Katherine Sorenson, Mrs Sorenson, this is my mother Martha Rogers."

"Yes, we met at the door," his mother patted his arm, "I'll leave you two to it then. We're running lines at the theatre this afternoon and I'm terribly behind."

"She has a small speech in the second act and all this fuss," Castle muttered as she swanned out of the room.

"I heard that," Martha called from the hallway.

Kate smiled at their family banter. "I see where you get it from now."

"Oh, just be glad I have been tempered by the other half of my heritage."

"The mysterious Mister Castle?"

"No, that's a nom-de-plume. She claims it's because she doesn't know who it is, but not even my name alludes to my paternity. Anyway, I'm sure you're not here to discuss my family's dirty laundry. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Will is away on business," she told him, "Until the end of May. I thought we could visit Mister Pulgatti today."

"You waste no time."

"On the contrary, we've wasted too much time. I'd like to get started as soon as possible, and I'm sure you'll agree that there's nothing left to follow up in the city."

"That's true," he stood and looked at his watch. "Well if we leave now we'll make it just before lunch. I just need to check with my mother to make sure someone will be here when Alexis finishes school. You're ready to leave?"

"As soon as possible," she confirmed.

Martha huffed about having to take Alexis to her rehearsal, but Castle promised to be home as soon as possible and was forgiven after a well-timed compliment to the aging diva. They were thus on the road within the hour, with Kate relegated to reading the map while Castle drove. They barely made it out of Manhattan before that arrangement was reversed. Castle sulked for several miles until she threw him an apologetic smile and asked him how the book was coming. He spent the next half of the trip working through the various outlandish scenarios he had thought up for his new character. They were making good time and she found she was enjoying shooting down his silly stories with logic until he made the mistake of letting his character's name slip.

She slammed on the breaks.

"Woah," he said, as though she were a horse. "What if there was someone behind us?"

"There's not. We've been the only ones for miles."

"You don't like it?"

"It's ... I've heard showgirls and _prostitutes _calling themselves less provocative things."

"Have you now?" he gave her a sly smile.

She pinched his shoulder quite hard. He yelped.

"Change it."

"No," he crossed his arms and began tapping his foot.

"Change it."

"No."

"Fine, at least change the last name."

"No."

"I swear to God, I will ..." she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. "It's truly horrid. How is anyone going to take a detective called Nicola Heat seriously?"

"If you don't get back on the road soon we'll miss visiting hours," he said, then turned to study the scenery.

She spent the rest of the journey fuming and he spent it imaging a scene in which her fictional counterpart pulled over in the middle of nowhere and shot her companion into a ditch.

By the time they arrived at the prison, she had put aside her anger. She told him as much in a clipped tone that suggested otherwise, but he wisely decided not to press the issue. There would be time to win her over to Nikki Heat later, he reasoned. She opened the door after parking the car but he reached for her arm to hold her in place. She turned to glare at him.

"Sorry," he held his hands up in surrender, "I was just thinking. Why are we here?"

"To question Joe Pulgatti?" she knit her brows, not following.

"No, what are we going to tell them we're here for? I don't think they let you walk into prisons and interview inmates."

"Really? Can't you pretend you're a private detective?"

"I've got a better idea," he jumped from the car and rounded it in four quick steps to help her down. She ignored his outstretched hand.

"What is it?" she tapped her foot against the dust of the prison parking lot. "The idea," she pressed, when he was non-responsive.

"We're from Joe Pulgatti's church," he pulled a pad and pen from his coat and scribbled a quick note, "See?"

She read over it quickly. "Joe Pulgatti's brother sent us to pray with him?"

"I'll be a minister."

"This will never work."

"I bet it will."

"I bet it won't."

"Three dollars and a drink at Javier's says you're wrong."

"Fine," she took off across the lot.

"Fine," he ran to keep up with her.

Despite her cynicism, she played her part in the act. It worked a charm, and after signing the appropriate paperwork they were shown into the visiting room. Sitting on the other side of the table was a stern looking man in cuffs. Castle held out his hand for her money. She deposited three crisp notes into his waiting palm with a dirty look.

He thrust them into his pocket and took a seat opposite the gangster, shuffling his chair sideways to accommodate his partner.

The prison chairs were hard and uncomfortable. As was their custom, he waited for her lead. She opened with the hard-won photographs of the four victims while he studied their opponent's face. Joe Pulgatti recognised at least one of them, he could tell by the slight change in tension in the muscles in his face. The gangster was co-operative though, so he had no need to share that information.

"Yeah I recognise two of 'em," he said in his heavy Italian-American accent. "That woman there, must be your mother, I'd reckon. Johanna Beckett, she used to come up here with the church. Protestants of course, and I'm a good Catholic boy myself, but she knew her scripture and didn't mind debating a point neither. I missed her after she stopped coming up here too; the other church ladies weren't the same. That must be about six years back now, before she died."

"What do you know about that?" she pressed, trying to hide her impatience. She had picked up on the hint of new leads, new information, and it couldn't come fast enough. Her foot tapped silently beneath the table.

"I heard that her and her lawyer friend, the man there, got done," he sat back. There was the clink of metal-on-metal as his handcuffs met with the chair. "They were asking too many questions see."

"Questions about what?"

"About why I'm in here," he grinned. It was predatory. Castle recognised a good storyteller when he saw one; the gangster was going to string her along for as long as he could. He sat back and critiqued his craft.

"About the murder of Robert Armond?" she was running her fingers along the fraying edges of the photograph absently. "The policeman you killed?"

"Bobby wasn't one'a mine missie," he leant in close, "He was a friend. Liked to play cards and came round to borrow a few clams every now and then when he was hard up. Worked it off too, by shifting attention from a few of my sins. No, the man who shot Bobby was a copper himself, but the only ones who saw was me and Bobby, and he ain't around to set the record straight now is he?"

"Do you know who it was?" she asked, "The man who shot him?"

"Yeah I recognised him. It was Gary McAllister, a copper too, so at first I thought he was sore about Bobby being crooked, but I realised where I knew him from and that couldn't possibly be the case. See he had a habit of hanging out down in the sixth ward with some Irish fellas in the business so he ain't no saint himself."

"So one corrupt cop shoots another," Castle mused aloud, speaking for the first time since they entered the room. "Why? One can't have been going to dob the other in; knowing about their respective criminal associations would have been a kind of insurance policy."

"Oh no, this was about business. Someone needed Bobby out of the way, so he had it done. And then when Johanna Beckett and her lawyer friend started sniffing around, he got nervous. I'm guessing that when your mother wouldn't take money, he decided to get creative."

"Who?" she asked. "Who ordered the murders?"

"I don't know," he told her.

She gave him an incredulous look.

"Nah, on the level. If I knew I'd have taken care of it by now. I got a family remedy for guys like that. But it's someone real powerful, a lotta influence both inside and outside the law. Smart too. Only person alive who knows about any of it are his people and me, and the only reason he hasn't had me killed in the can is that I got brothers, and my brothers have got friends."

"The city medical examiner thinks these killings were carried out by a professional. Do you know anyone who does this kind of work?" she gave him on the crime scene photos from the police file to examine.

He shook his head, "It's not one of the boys I've used. But I've been out of the game for a long time. You wanna be asking my brothers. You'll find them down in the Bowery. There's a place there, Palermo's. Tell them I sent you, and there's not to be any trouble."

"Thank you for your help Mister Pulgatti," the younger Beckett looked suspicious of his intentions.

"I liked your mother Miss Beckett. She had real class that one, and guts too. I'd be happy to help in the administration of justice, if necessary. You just talk to my boys," he flashed his metal-studded smile at them. "They'll help you out. They'll protect you. And don't you go being silly now and get it into your head that you'll take some moral high ground. These people you're after, they don't mess around. You and your little sidekick here'll be in the ground like your mother if you don't watch after yourself."

"I'll keep that in mind," she told him, unafraid.

"Ah just like your mother," he crowed, "Too much courage for your own good and a stubborn little head your shoulders. You watch yourself Mister Castle; this doll won't stand for you telling her what to do."

Castle rubbed his shoulder ruefully at the memory of exactly how true that was. "Yes sir, I'm aware of that."

"I tell you, if I'd married a girl like you I wouldn't have kept so many molls on the side," he leered at her and Castle bristled beside her. She mentally rolled her eyes. The writer could talk the talk, but she was pretty sure he wasn't violent by nature, not like their newly acquired criminal patron. She almost laughed at the thought of the two of them coming to blows.

"Ah," the gangster seemed amused by both their reactions and smiled knowingly. "You're going to be trouble for each other."

"Well that's certainly one way of describing him," she gave him a sideways look. "Do you know anything else that might be of use Mister Pulgatti?"

He shook his head no. "I'm serious about the help Miss Beckett. You'll need it."

"It's Mrs Sorenson, actually," she corrected him after an awkward pause.

"Interesting," he shot a look in Castle's direction.

The writer studiously refused to return it, giving the room a once over for any prison scenes that might turn up in future novels.

"I knew that would be helpful," her earlier mood was forgotten entirely as they exited Sing Sing, a sentiment shared by many before her. Not even the April showers making the roads slick and lengthening their journey dampened her spirits. He was more thoughtful in the wake of the new information, and she suspected he was silently spinning wild tales in his head, waiting to find one worth sharing. That suited her perfectly. They made the drive back to the city in silence.

* * *

><p>Bowery was sluggish at the respectable hour they visited, as though the whole neighbourhood was nursing a hangover. The remains of the previous night's antics littered the streets, a testament to louder more lively times in the district as more legitimate businesses quietly peddled their wares.<p>

Joe Pulgatti had conveniently forgotten a few facts about Palermo's. The first was that it's grimy and forlorn façade was uninviting, to say the least. At street level, it smelt of stale beer and urine. A forgotten drunkard was curled into a nook beside the stairs, snoring loudly. Katherine Sorenson took it all in, and with the slightest hint of distaste in her expression, ascended the stairs. Upon entering, a second fact became obvious – Palmero's was a bordello. The room was rich-looking though worn, decorated with mahogany accents and rich wine reds. Brocade drapes hid the view from the windows in the front room.

It was a slow hour for business, and so the bar in the corner was untended except for the elderly madam, slumped over the wood with a whiskey in her hand. She was dozing, legs crossed and skirts exposing her stockings. A few of the girls were still at work, lounging in the parlour wearing little more than nothing. They looked as though they were about to dress; Kate found the contrast of carefully tousled hair and painted lips, necklaces and jewellery, high heels and their best under garments odd but perhaps that was part of the appeal. She felt strange, it was the unease of a woman who had intruded on a space she did not belong in, but she did her best to shake it off.

Castle used his omnipresent charm to insinuate himself among the girls, and after clearing up the some confusion about his status as a customer, was already happily chatting to them about their experiences. She sometimes wondered if she was the only one immune to such displays, but then again, she expected whores were better than actresses at feigning interest in male attention. She felt something like jealously, but dismissed it before she had a chance to fully comprehend the feeling; it was somewhere between pity and envy at the ease with which these women exposed themselves. Kate had been raised to believe in suffrage, and while she had rejected some of her mother's philosophies, it had been to replace them with more radical ones, a product of the times. But there was the ever-present internal conflict between what she believed to be true, that the intrinsic worth of both genders was equal, and archaic society that was only taking the beginning steps towards a massive cultural revolution. There was also the slightest notion of possession, that her partner was hers, but she didn't notice it, consciously.

He asked the women a few pertinent questions (who was in charge and where could they find a Mister Pulgatti?) and he was escorted into the back room. She was too, by virtue of his light but insistent tug at her elbow.

There they were met with the pleasant but bitter smell of espresso and a heavy-set Italian man counting out bills. By Castle's estimation he was five years younger than his older brother, but their common heritage was clear in the shape of their profiles and their eyes.

"Belle, what yer doing bringing people round now?" he barked, "I'm doing the books."

"Well how I was I supposed to know?" the hooker screeched in her Brooklyn drawl.

"It's the same time every morning," he waved her off, "Get outta here."

"Sorry to interrupt," Castle stood and held Kate by the shoulder to stop her advancing. "We didn't realise you'd be busy."

"You're awful polite for a fella who's busting in on a gangster counting his cash," said gangster gave him a once over, deciding how to react, then settled on wry amusement.

"I'm not here to pull a heist," Castle held up his hands, "The lady and I were visiting your bother up the river the other day; he said you might be able to help us out."

"Depends on what you're looking for," he tucked the last of his cash into a small tin, locked it and nodded to the seats opposite him. "Sit."

They complied. Beckett stole a questioning glance in Castle's direction but he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. It was the first time in their acquaintance he'd led one of their pseudo-interrogations, but he'd sized up their mark and thought they'd get more out of the gangster _da uomo a uomo_. She obviously agreed with him, because she let it pass without comment.

"I'm Rick Castle," he introduced himself, offering a handshake. The other man leant forward to accept and had a grip like a vice, fat sausage-like fingers adept at every kind of manual intimidation. "And this is Mrs Sorenson."

She gave him a single nod but didn't shy away from his leer. There was that attitude that Castle prized. He noted it with a certain enjoyment then appraised the younger Pulgatti's reaction.

He grinned, "Charlie Pulgatti. So what brings you down to my half of town?" he clasped his hands against the table top.

"We're investigating the murder that put your brother in prison," Castle decided a direct approach was best. He didn't make Charles Pulgatti for a man with a great deal of patience. "Which, after talking to him the other day, we're fairly sure is a crime he didn't commit."

"You got that right," Charlie leant back in his chair, "Spends his life killing people, other hoods mind you, not decent people, and they put 'im in the cooler for one he didn't do. That's irony that is."

"Tragedy, actually," Castle remarked. "It seems your brother became someone else's fall guy."

"We came across your brother's case looking into another matter. A woman was murdered in 1919," he gestured for Kate to hand over the picture she kept. He suspected she had always carried it; it showed the evidence of time's abuse in the well-worn creases and rough edges. She pulled it from her purse pushed it across the table.

"Johanna Beckett Do you recognise her?"

"No, but I know the name. That's the Jane that used to visit Joey. He liked her too; thought she was the cat's pyjamas. He was mighty angry about it when she was knocked off."

"You knew it was a professional job?"

"We kinda figured as all the people who started asking questions about Joey's case ended up in the ground. Kinda convenient for somebody. At first we thought it was the Spolano boys up the road. Good for their business see, but we had a few run ins. They swore they didn't do it. And the other, ah, _interest groups_, shall we say, didn't know nothing neither. So I gets to thinking, who wants Joe outta the picture so bad that they go to the trouble of killing that woman and her lawyer friend? We launched our own enquiry, much like yours here. We didn't find a thing. Nobody was talking. They were afraid of something, someone, even more afraid than of my boys. But I got the feeling it wasn't about poor Joe at all. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Coulda been anyone of us if we was with Bobby the night he died."

"You didn't find anything that might be of use to us?" Kate finally spoke. "It was my mother who was killed Mister Pulgatti. I want, I _need_justice."

"That cop? The one who investigated Bobby's murder, Raglan? He knows something. He's sitting on it though. Probably will 'til the day he dies. In my experience, if a man's willing to keep his trap shut under the threat of death… or worse, he ain't ever gonna squeal."

"We'll talk to him. Thank you, Mister Pulgatti, for your time," Castle rose to leave but the other man's eyes remained fixed on Kate. She returned his gaze coolly.

"Was there something else sir?"

Castle paused when she spoke, and twisted to face the conversation instead of the door.

"Joe told me he made you an offer, Missie."

"He did."

"He also told me you were gonna reject that offer on account of your lofty principles, which is incredibly proper of you but it's also incredibly foolish. Don't let me change your mind though, I got a fiver riding on it."

"I wasn't going to decline," she said evenly, determination steeling her tone. "On one condition: when we find the man who killed my mother and put your brother in prison, I want the first run at him. If things can't be dealt with via the official channels though, I'll tell you where you can find him. In return, I'd like your help, when we need it."

"What kind of help you expect to be needing?"

"I'm not sure," she drummed her fingers from index to pinkie against her skirt. "Protection maybe, information about the people in your business? That kind of thing."

"Usually, that'll cost yer," he twisted his wedding bands around on his fingers, "But any friend of Joey's is a friend of mine. And youse is gonna need some friends."

Katherine Sorenson gave him a curt nod and stood. "Thank you."

Castle offered him a hand; the gangster took it in a two-handed shake before they took their leave.

The front room was unchanged. The older woman asleep at the bar had started to snore softly. The glass next to her remained untouched though her rouge hung to the rim in neat crescents. The girls in the parlour were sharing a cigarette and wished Castle a good day with a chorus of giggles. There was a lethargy about the place that was mesmerizing. The sharp stare of daylight pulled her from its grasp as they stepped onto the landing. She brought a hand up to shield her eyes.

"As far as deals with the devil go," Castle remarked as they remerged into the livelier street, "It wasn't half bad."

"You know what they say about the devil you know Mister Castle," she returned. "Better to accept his help. If this man is as powerful as they all say, the alliance might prove useful."

"They'll kill him if they find him Katherine," he told her in a low, serious voice surveying the street in both directions before stepping off the bottom step. "And it'll be on your conscience. Can you live with that?"

She paused, her hesitation accompanied by a brief glance at his face. She didn't like what she saw or didn't find what she was looking for though, because she looked away almost immediately and studied her shoes as they walked. Finally, after three paces of silence she brought her eyes up and her chin forward, eyes fixed on something in the distance. She brought her hand up to touch the invisible length of the chain that disappeared beneath her collar, fingers pressing against the reassuring weight of her mother's wedding ring. She answered him honestly, "I don't know Mister Castle. In the past six years I have found it to be surprising, the things you can learn to carry with you."

* * *

><p>Kate hurried out to the post box when she heard the mail being delivered and was disappointed to find nothing from the latest round of queries she had sent out about her mother's killer. She was trying to track down John Raglan without success. He had retired from the police force over a year ago, and none of his former colleagues knew his current address. She had tried getting Javier to ask around for information among his clientele, but to no avail. Frustrated, she was savagely ripping into a letter from Will when the doorbell rang.<p>

When she answered, Kevin Ryan and Rick Castle were standing in the hall looking smug, like cats full of canary.

"Mrs Sorenson," the policeman greeted her, "I was telling Rick here about something he thinks you'll find mighty interesting, so interesting that he insisted we come down here right away to tell you."

"Oh," she blinked, "Well. Come in."

She stepped back to let them into the apartment, offering them drinks, which were politely declined.

"Well then," they followed her into the sitting room, "Have a seat."

"I was working today when we came a poor soul who'd been stabbed," Ryan told her. Castle looked positively gleeful at the news. "Skip to the good part," he instructed his friend.

"I'm getting there," Ryan scolded. "Anyway, I think you'll be interested ma'am, because when I showed Castle the body down at Doc Murray's he recognised the pattern in the wounds immediately. It looks like the same killer who was responsible for killing your mother."

"That's terribly unfortunate for the victim," she managed to say, "What else did you find? Do you have any leads?"

"We've just identified the victim. His name was Jack Coonan, ran around with Owney Madden's crew in Hell's Kitchen. We're running down his associates now."

"Did he have any family?"

"Mother and father out in Ohio. He had a brother, Dick Coonan, who died during the war. I expect the associates will turn something up. If someone hired a killer to settle a business disagreement it should be fairly obvious who it is. We'll pick him up and get a name."

"And then what?" she asked the two men sitting opposite her.

"And then, ma'am, I'll put him in jail."

Ryan opened his mouth to say something more but thought better of it. "Well, I'd better be getting back to work."

She rose with the detective and left Castle in the other room, silently praying he wouldn't poke around in her things or uncover anything embarrassing when he inevitably did. Ever since he had got it into his head that he would write about her he had been mining for personal information. Character research, he called it. It made her uncomfortable. She saw Ryan out, thanking him and wishing him a good day before hurrying back.

"But wait, now that we're alone there's more," Castle said when she joined him again in his best dramatic voice. "We also found out something interesting about John Raglan. Guess who his partner was?"

"I don't know. Brandon Hurst," she guessed, sarcastically.

"So beautiful and so angry," he mumbled under his breath. "No, it was Gary McAllister," he said more clearly, "And we were talking to some older cops down at the station this morning who reckon McAllister and Raglan liked to play cards."

"Where is this going?" she narrowed her eyes, "I'm not going to like it am I?"

"That depends on your evening plans," Castle grinned happily. "What do you say to following McAllister to a back table poker game in Chinatown?"

"You think he might lead us to Raglan?"

"I think he might lead us to Raglan," he confirmed, "Or at the very least, be able to tell us where his former partner hails from these days. He might even know something about your mother's case. We checked the records, which believe me was a dusty job, and the skirt they had at the desk was not too keen on letting me back there with Ryan, but McAllister and Raglan where both patrolling the night Joe Pulgatti was arrested."

"So what does one wear to an illegal poker game in Chinatown Mister Castle?"

"Something distracting," he said, "I don't want to lose too much money."

* * *

><p>She arrived at his house just before eight o'clock, as they had arranged, wearing a green silk dress with fine beading drawing his eye to the neckline. He was still trying to fix his tie, so she turned and slipped out of her fur coat, revealing the back of the dress, which was cut to a deep V, revealing the cream plane of shoulders. The asymmetric hemline fell from her hips nearly to her ankles, but revealed hints of her stockings to her legs when she walked. He decided it certainly fit the bill.<p>

"Here," she pressed her lips together in exasperation when she saw him struggling with the tie; "Let me."

Her lips were expertly outlined in red rouge and aside from a few curls that framed her face, her hair was tied in a knot at the base of her neck, fastened with a gold comb studded with pearls. She blinked up at him from beneath her lashes when she caught him looking at her. "What?"

"Nothing," he stepped backward, out of her reach as she finished her knot, "You look lovely. Let me just get my coat and say goodnight to Alexis."

His daughter was asleep in her grandmother's lap when she followed him into the sitting room.

"I won't be a minute," he told her quietly, "Take a seat."

He bent to scoop his daughter into his arms, smiling when she mumbled something in her sleep. She stirred, blinking up at him with sleep-clouded blue eyes. "Say goodnight to Mrs Sorenson and gram," he instructed.

"Night," Alexis yawned and waved over her father's shoulder.

"Goodnight," Kate watched the scene unfold with some surprise. The contrast between who he was with his family and who he was in the world struck her as significant somehow.

"Mrs Sorenson," Martha smiled when they disappeared into the hall, patting the seat beside her.

"Miss Rogers," she nodded politely and sat down.

"Where are you two off to tonight?" Martha looked up from her script and leant toward her like a friend. With anyone else, she might have felt crowded, but with the actress it felt normal, as though it was just her way. "That dress is lovely by the way. It brings out the colour in your eyes."

"Thank you," she rewarded the older woman with a small smile. "We're just following up on a lead in our investigation. It was Castle's idea actually."

"I hope he's actually helping you and not just making a nuisance of himself. I sometimes wonder."

"Well," she laughed quietly, "A little of both. He's been very helpful with the investigation. It's everything else I'm worried about. This book?" she rearranged her legs, "I can't imagine what he could be writing about."

"Murder darling," Martha patted her shoulder, "And don't you worry, he thinks too much of you to really embarrass you. I'm sure of it."

"Are you telling her all of my faults mother?" Castle reappeared in the doorway carrying a suit jacket over his arm.

"She was very complimentary actually," Kate assured him, "Is Alexis asleep?"

"I told her the world's shortest fairy tale," he nodded, "She fell asleep before the princess proved instrumental in slaying the dragon, much to the surprise of the prince."

"An interesting twist," at the word, her lips twisted into a smile.

"And she didn't even hear it," he looked disappointed. "Mother, I shouldn't be too late and if you're still running lines by the time I get home I promise you I'll do my best to impersonate your nemesis," he bent to kiss her on the cheek.

"Goodnight Miss Rogers," Kate stood.

"Call me Martha dear," the older woman raised her fingers in a wave, "Have a good time and try to keep Richard out of trouble."

"I'll do my best," she promised.

In 1925, Chinatown in Manhattan was a growing area East of The Five Points, widely known to be run by Chinese gangs, a mix of political groups and criminal syndicates. The card game was held in the back room of a restaurant called the Golden Dragon, which doubled as a relatively gritty speakeasy and an opium den. Katherine Sorenson had never really felt afraid in her life, even in the city's underbelly, but for once she was glad of Castle's hand at her back as they were ushered down the stairs.

Castle made for a table next to the bar and bought them drinks. She sniffed the concoction in her glass and twisted her face to express her distaste. "What is this?"

"The bartender's version of a French 75. Their gin is from one of the local barrel houses; I could tell by the bottle. Trust me, you do not want to taste that stuff undiluted."

"I'm not sure I want to taste it diluted," she twisted the glass in her hands but didn't drink.

"They're mostly for show anyway," he said, "So we don't stand out too much. We're sitting pretty here for seeing anyone who comes to the bar, and in a joint like this I'd imagine everybody comes to the bar."

He spoke too soon. An hour later, they were still sitting, appraising the crowd and there was no sign of McAllister or Raglan. She tugged at the chain around her neck absently.

"Try not to look so bored," he told her.

"Maybe your conversation leaves a little to be desired," she was starting to feel like she was wasting time that she could be using to curl up in bed and read with much more favourable results.

"You've barely said two words to me," he stopped halfway through the sentence and started studying something behind her with great interest.

"Well maybe if you …" she trailed off, realising he had stopped paying attention to her.

"Hey!" she let her foot tap his shin beneath the table.

"What is it?" he asked, blinking a few times.

"What are you looking at?" she didn't turn around to follow his eyes, in case whoever he was watching had noticed them. "Is it McAllister?"

He shook his head and pulled a hastily developed photograph from his pocket. He slipped it across the table to her face down. "This is Ryan's murder victim from this afternoon."

She turned it over and studied the face. She had identified her mother's body in the morgue and seen the crime scenes for the other murders Castle had uncovered and she recognised the shadows around his lips and the unnatural luminosity of his skin indicating that it was a photograph of a man very much dead.

"Are you meant to have this?" she asked, turning it face down again and returning it to him.

"No, don't tell Ryan," he put it back in his jacket pocket but didn't look as mischievous as she would have anticipated, mind occupied elsewhere. "I swiped it from the file when he wasn't looking."

She didn't scold him because it would be pointless. Her eyes narrowed though, and he took her meaning.

"Why did you show it to me?" she asked.

"Well look to your left in a minute and tell me what you see."

She raised her glass to her lips and let her eyes dart to her left, studying the man Castle nodded to for a second before she nearly choked in surprise.

"That's the man in the picture," she said, after she had coughed a few times.

"I thought so too," Castle looked contemplative. "But when I saw him this afternoon he was very, very dead and the man at the bar over there is very, very alive. Last I checked those were mutually exclusive conditions."

"Indeed," she tried not to stare but was finding her gaze drawn back to their ghost incarnate. "Wait a minute Castle, if you look again I think you'll realise that there's a logical explanation for this."

"Necromancy?" he offered hopefully.

"No, genetics," she said. "That man has intense scarring on the left side of his face. I think it's probably Jack Coonan's allegedly deceased brother. A cousin wouldn't look so alike, and there must have been some clerical errors with so many dead and wounded soldiers."

"So what is Jack Coonan's dead brother doing walking into a known criminal haunt the day of his brother's murder?"

"Coincidence?" she suggested. "Maybe it's close to home."

"A good writer doesn't believe in coincidences," he told her. "I think we should tell Ryan about this."

"I agree," she caught sight of something interesting behind his head. "But maybe it can wait, I think there's more pressing business at hand."

He turned, just as McAllister was visible disappearing behind a curtain in the back of the room. They hurried through the crowd to follow him. She was ahead of him even in her heels but he pulled her back.

She glared at him, but he held a finger to her lips before she could protest.

"Shh, if you want to get in there at all, and don't get yourself into a state when I call you my moll."

"I'm may be new to this game," she said with a half-way haughty sniff. "But I'm a fast learner." Then she linked her arm through his and leant against his shoulder, giving him a winning smile. "I suppose we should put on a good show."

He gaped at her, but she was already looking ahead to the solid-looking immigrant who stood beside the curtain. "How do you suppose we'll get past him?" she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. He suddenly felt that his mother might not be the best actress he'd ever met.

"All men are movable for a price," he said lightly, trying not to focus on the tantalising weight of her body against his arm.

He threw about no small amount of money to be included in the game. She hissed at him for it when they were alone for a few seconds, but he waved her off. It was nothing to him anyway. The novels were selling well, and besides, Javier kept him in a few side ventures that were lucrative.

"Just try to be a lucky charm," he told her, patting her arm where it was still linked through his, "And help me win back some of it."

"Are you suggesting I help you cheat?" she said below her breath as she appraised the room. "Because I would claim a moral objection, but more than that, I have a more real fear of what the competition might do if they found out."

"I'm suggesting you give me a kiss for luck," he teased her, "When I sit down. And then stand beside me a look mighty pretty, distract the other players from the game."

To his surprise, she did too. She gave him the wickedest look he'd ever seen and planted her lips on his cheek.

The poker game revealed very little about their opponent, though he tried to push conversation. She stood opposite him and shook her head every now and then when the other members at the table started to look suspicious of his information-gathering attempts. He usually misinterpreted her signals though, and bet conservatively when he shouldn't have. His slowly dwindling pile of chips earned him a depreciating eye roll from her. The loss wasn't too great though, and he came out of the game licking his wounds. McAllister met his eyes when he folded in the last hand and snarled with pleasure, "That'll teach a rich kid like you to sweep into a place you don't belong and throw your money around."

Castle shrugged, self-depreciatingly, and pushed his chips towards the ex-cop. He did have to hand it to the older man, his poker face was deadly.

"I guess I'll call it a night then. The lady's probably getting tired," he rose and offered his hand around the table.

Everyone except McAllister took it. The ex-cop leered at his hand and offered to let him buy back into the game, but he declined. "I know when to cut my losses."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

Their eye contact was intense. Kate was sure their person of interest had caught onto them. After a tense pause, McAllister shook the writer's hand, gave him a sly smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "For another cliché, I guess I'll quit while I'm ahead," he said.

The three of them exited back through the curtain, and Castle was surprised when she tugged at his hand, drawing them away from McAllister who made for the bar.

"What are you doing? He was about to open up?" he asked, confused.

"He knows we're onto something," she countered, "He'll get defensive and we don't know enough yet to know when he's telling the truth."

"So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we leave and come back. When he's more familiar with you, he might open up on his own, or, more likely, as we learn more we can ask him more specific questions. Besides, I don't like the vibe in this place. Those other men at the table? They didn't seem very friendly. I was glad you lost actually. I think if you won their money they'd drag you out into the back alley and take it back."

"You might not be wrong there. None of this is above board."

"So I don't think it's a good idea to question McAllister in front of his criminal friends, especially if he was involved in Armond's murder, or my mother's for that matter."

"Ok. You've convinced me. I'll take you home," he offered, "And don't even think of telling me it's unnecessary, we're far too far downtown for that to work tonight."

She rewarded him with a characteristic roll of her eyes. No need to tell him she agreed with him.

* * *

><p>Ryan was so grateful for their new information that he asked around for the former Officer Raglan's address. He had handed Castle a worn scrap of paper at Javier's the next night and told him they had cross-checked with the military: no record of Dick Coonan's death could be found. He had been dishonourably discharged relatively early in the war after an injury and sent home. It seems his family had received the notice in error, though they hadn't seen him since. Castle's mind went to work on the details and came up with a more dramatic picture: that telling his family he had disappeared in the war was the perfect way to assume a new identity. And new identities usually meant one thing: a life of crime. Ryan had promised they would look into the matter in more detail.<p>

In the meantime, Castle and the flesh-and-blood inspiration for his lady detective were doing their best to gain an interview with John Raglan. He was doggedly avoiding their attempts though, and never seemed to be home when they called and didn't answer any of the letters she wrote him. It made for a slow week on the investigative front, and slow weeks tended to mean Castle's imagination, ever in need of stimulation, would invent wild theories to keep himself amused. He divided his time between writing them down and trying to bounce ideas of Katherine Sorenson. She was unamused by his efforts as they pertained to their investigation and even less amused with the fantastical story he had invented for Dick Coonan.

By the end of the week, Ryan had found Coonan at the Golden Dragon, hitting the pipe. In his intoxicated state, he was almost helpful at interview. The police were now focussing their resources on finding the mysterious gun-for-hire Coonan had alluded to when they spoke. Ryan was keeping them up to speed on the investigation nightly in the dim light of Javier's. On one such occasion, Mrs Sorenson had determined it necessary to conduct their own interview. The police had not asked after any personal connections Coonan had to the players involved in their investigation, and Castle always jumped at the chance to talk shop with a criminal. She was of the opinion that he found crime far too titillating, and was starting to have doubts about how he paid for the brownstone he rented.

They had arranged to meet their dead man walking at Javier's on a rainy Saturday. A large thunderstorm was looming over the Atlantic, bringing cascades of torrential rain over the city. Garbage and cigarette butts floated in the flooding gutters when she met him outside the unremarkable door that marked the entrance to the jazz club. He walked over and held out his hand, helping her jump over the river of water. Their sopping umbrellas bumped as he did it.

"You could have waited inside," she chided him when he had knocked and been admitted. She was ahead of him on the stairs, which were wet from the traffic of many soaked shoes, and turned back to be heard.

He shrugged down at her, "You were only just behind me."

The crowd was sparser than usual on account of the wild weather. He took her umbrella from her and stowed it behind the bar, with a nod to Javier. She hovered at the bottom of the stairs and looked around the familiar space, with its dim lighting and exposed ceiling beams. There wasn't a band that night, just a lone piano player tinkering away at an instrument that had needed tuning six months ago. Its lower octaves were slipping flatter and flatter, but that almost added more colour to the complex chords. Only the most hardened of regulars were present; she recognised a few. There were a few couples shuffling around the makeshift dance floor but even that was more subdued than usual. Maybe it was just more intimate.

She made for their usual table in the back but Castle caught her elbow and nodded towards Dick Coonan. His distinctive, scarred face was visible above a table by the bar, the light catching only half of his features. She felt the weight of her partner at her back as she moved towards him.

After the appropriate introductions were made and Javier brought over a round of drinks, Coonan lit a cigarette and sucked on it while they began their questioning. It was a fine art by that time. She knew exactly what pace to adopt, how to direct her questions, and he knew when to interject and when to keep his mouth shut (not that he always did).

It was short and repetitive, all information they'd heard second hand through Ryan. All her attempts to find out anything new about the assassin were met with short, unhelpful answers.

"How did you find him?" she asked.

"He was an old army buddy."

Castle could feel her frustrations growing.

"Was he involved with any other criminal activity?"

"You mean besides selling murders for money? I don't know ma'am. It's entirely possible but like I told you, we didn't talk about that. We talked about the war and we talked about the job. I paid him in cash at a diner on Canal Street. I can't really remember the name. I'd only been there the once."

"What did he look like?"

"He was average looking. He wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Why's a girl like you asking so many questions about an assassin anyways?" he looked down at her hands. They were wrung around her glass tightly in her irritation. "You want to get rid of that husband of yours Mrs… what was it? Sorenson?" he grinned at her reaction, "It'll cost you."

"No," her tone was cool. If Castle didn't know her better, he'd think she was on the verge of starting a bar brawl. "Someone close to me was murdered by this killer for hire of yours. I'd very much like to find him."

"Well I'm afraid I can't be of very much help," Coonan stood and started counting at bills. "I'm very sorry you lost her ma'am."

He left without another word. She started after him with her mouth open in insult. They both turned over the sequence of events internally for several seconds. Something about his last words bothered her. She hadn't mentioned her mother's name; she hadn't mentioned it had even _been_her mother who was killed. It wasn't relevant.

"Castle I think he did it," she exclaimed, just as he came to the same conclusion, "I think it's him."

He moved faster than she did, hands going to her shoulders to turn her to face the exit. And then they hurried up the stairs without stopping to explain; Javier was looking after them, confused. She pulled her skirt up to her knees and took the stairs two and a time. He was at her heels until they emerged onto the street.

Coonan was only a few feet away, having stopped to smoke before walking home.

She called after him. "Mister Coonan, wait. I have one more question for you."

He stopped and turned slowly, giving them time to catch up to him. She trotted over and paused, just shy of his personal space, "Who hired you to kill my mother?"

He looked at her, surprised that he had been caught, and was about to run when she grabbed his jacket and twisted her hands in it. Castle watched, looking alarmed.

"Don't just stand there!" she protested, leaning her weight against Coonan's efforts to twist out of her grasp, "Help me."

Finally shaking off his surprise, he did. It was graceless, and still a struggle, but he managed to help her pin Coonan's arm against his sides. They looked at each other; now what? He spread himself further, to take over from her.

"Go downstairs and get Ryan," he instructed her through gritted teeth. The other man's boot connected with his shin. It didn't take long for the assassin to prise himself from the writer's grasp, but his pride was wounded and besides, they had a contact in the police. Instead of running, his hand went to his boot.

She had her back to him and Castle saw her hand on the door knob when he felt the knife at his throat. She might not have even turned around, but for the fact that he used her first name. It escaped his lips in a desperate kind of way, like the sound couldn't wait to echo of the walls of the alley.

"Kate!"

She didn't turn immediately, but when she did the sky flooded with light, a single flash signalling the storm was upon them, and he saw the way her face froze, eyes meeting Coonan's with a kind of challenge in them. She was holding a pistol, held it with a businesslike air, like she was comfortable with it. Castle hoped that meant she was a good shot. The assassin's knife gleamed at his throat. Then it was dark again.

"Let him go," she commanded, holding out one hand. "Let him go and we'll let you go."

She stepped forward slowly.

"You don't want to do that," the knife dug into his skin harder as the man beside him spoke the words, taking a step away from her. "I could kill him in a second, not to mention he's awfully close. What if you miss? I saw the looks you were giving him back there, when you thought he wasn't looking."

"I won't miss," she promised, "But I don't know what you're talking about."

She still managed to be indignant even in the face of what Castle thought were more important points to protest, namely the blade making contact with his pulsing carotid artery.

"Be smart Coonan. If you do this, after I shoot you I'll have to go back down there and tell Detective Ryan what we know; that it was you who killed your brother. They know where you live. Even if I don't get you right between the eyes, which let's face it, at this range isn't likely, there'll be cops all over the place before you clear out."

"I've disappeared with nothing once," he countered her attempts at reason, "I can do it again," he was goading her; "There's an endless market for my particular talents."

There was another lightning strike, much closer this time. The wind started to blow the rain in horizontal sheets, but Castle still saw the anger that passed across her face. For a second he thought she might actually attack Coonan with the butt of the weapon instead of shooting him with it.

The thunder that followed its muse surprised them all. There was loud, echoing crack that rattled the windows facing the alley and all three of them jumped. Castle recovered first, and, seeing an opportunity, wrestled free of Dick Coonan's grasp. As the next flash illuminated the alley, the other man lunged for his hostage, but she had seen her shot and took it without hesitation. The crack of gunfire was immediately drowned by another deafeningly loud clap of thunder. The ground trembled a little beneath their feet.

Coonan had slumped to the ground, just shy of Castle's feet. The writer jumped backwards to avoid standing in the pool of blood that was beginning to seep from his chest. Kate was on him in a second though, pressing her hands to his chest to stop the bleeding. It was pure instinct and oddly intimate; her hands roamed beneath layers of blood soaked fabric trying to find the bullet hole at its source.

Castle stared at the body on the ground before him and then took in their surroundings, cataloguing details but not with his usual literary bent. He was looking for an exit strategy. At that moment, Kevin Ryan poked his head out the door of Javier's. In true speakeasy tradition, there were multiple exits in case of raids and the assassin had used one of the quieter back exits that emptied into a blind alley. Patrons tended to prefer two of the others, which led to a busier street. That worked in their favour. There was a lot of blood; he had noticed that. Her hands were covered in it and it was thick, dark, like wine. Still, he had seen men survive worse in the war.

"Quick," he yelled to the detective, who was calmly taking in the crime scene. "Get downstairs and call the Doc, tell him we're coming."

"The Doc _is _downstairs," Ryan informed him, "I doubt you'll have much luck. The lady's a good shot and the Doc's," he made a swilling motion with his hand, "Matching the boss drink for drink."

"What do we do?" she stared at him, the briefest trace of fear twisting her features.

He stooped down and covered her hands with his, adding pressure to the hole in Dick Coonan's chest. Castle weighed the odds for several tense moments before giving up on their assassin, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Come on, get up. No use ruining your clothes with the evidence."

"We can't just leave him here," she protested as the dying man took one last, gurgling breath. Blood bubbled between his lips and oozed out between her fingers as she pressed down in one final attempt to still the flow.

"Yes we can," he pulled her to her feet. "Look, he's a bad fella – known organised crime connections – more than one mob boss in this city is after his head. You shot him using a common weapon, which will never be found. If we leave him here in the alley..."

Ryan cleared his throat, "Maybe drag him down the block a-ways. Don't want the feds poking around Javier's place."

"Good point," Castle agreed. "Besides, we were seen here earlier and if the police figure out what we just did – that he killed your mother – we have a reason to kill him."

"We still won't have an alibi," she pointed out, but was already stooping to hold Dick Coonan's lifeless upper half.

"We'll be each other's alibi," he told her absently. "Ryan, go back downstairs before anyone realises you're gone and try to stop anyone coming by."

"I didn't see nothing," the Irishman assured them. "Because I never came up here."

"Good man."

Kate was still looking displeased at the idea of what Richard Castle being her alibi implied.

"Oh simmer down," he noticed her expression. "You could take a lesser lover."

"Help me lift him," was all he was rewarded with in reply, though she had to raise her voice over the downpour as the rain started up again.

They dragged the body two blocks south and left it propped up against a pile of milk crates and other garbage.

"The rain should take of the blood," Rick assured her, more for his benefit than hers, "And I'll get Javier to dump a few buckets of dishwater out the backdoor just in case."

She nodded mutely.

"And we're going to need to throw that pistol of yours in the river, along with our clothes."

She managed a scandalised look for posterity's sake.

"I'll get my mother to lend you something to wear," he returned her look with a small smile, "And I promise I won't sneak a peek when you change."

"You'd better not," she warned, "You saw what happened to the last man who crossed me."

Given that she was still soaked in his blood, the threat had weight.

They doubled back to Javier's and he used the supply entrance to sneak into the back room unnoticed. Huddled between crates of Canadian lager he noticed she was shaking. He pushed some of her rain drenched hair out of her face. "You all right?"

She nodded. "It's just a shame I had to shoot the bastard," she managed through gritted teeth, "I would've liked to know who he was working for."

"That'll come out now that he's dead," he ran his hands up and down her arms to warm her, "They'll be talk in certain circles, if you know where to listen."

"We can't exactly go asking about him," she pointed out.

"No, but gangsters gossip like little old ladies," he stripped off his sodden jacket and put it around her shoulders for what it was worth, but she appreciated the gesture (not visibly or verbally, but privately, just a little more than she should have).

"Where in God's name is... Javier!"

The bartender appeared in a brief blare of jazz and bar chatter, bringing with him a cigarette-laced draft of warm air.

"Ricky," he looked confused, "What are you doing down here? And... Miss Kate. Oh. _Oh_."

"It's not like that Mister Esposito," Kate glared, "We..." she hesitated for a moment, unsure if the truth was really better than his assumption. Murder still trumped adultery in her moral code. Javier had caught sight of the blood staining her dress and looked to Castle for an explanation.

"Things went south with Coonan," he told the bartender, "So I need you to send for my mother, get her to bring the car around back. And you're going to need to forget we ever mentioned him, if people come looking."

Javier wiped his face with his hand, "Jesus Ricky, I hope you didn't leave a gangster lying outside my bar."

"That's what the Spolano place is for," he grinned, "But you might want to throw some water out in the alley to be safe."

"You make sure you weigh down those clothes of yours real good," Javier instructed, "I'll send Ryan for your mother now."

"Thank you, you're a real pal."

"Not a worry," Javier handed him a small flask. "It's the good stuff. You both look like you could use it. And try not to get blood all over the merchandise."

He took a sip and handed the rest to Kate. She shook her head.

"You earned it," he insisted. "Drink up."

She made a face as she complied.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly after the liquor had burned down to his stomach. "That's not how this was meant to go and I know I got in the way. I'm just glad you think quickly on your feet and that you were hiding more than spare change in that thing."

"It's fine Mister Castle," she said automatically, her tone betraying her thoughts, which clearly lay elsewhere. She sounded absent.

"You just saved my life Katherine," he took the flask when she offered it to him; "I think you can call me Richard."

"Ok," she stripped off her blood soaked gloves and crammed them in her purse beside the pistol.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he took the bag from her hands and shoved it in his coat.

"I don't know yet," she rubbed her hands together to warm them; "I'm thinking we're missing something and I haven't yet figured out what it is."

He opened his mouth to say something but she never found out what it was. Javier interrupted from the top the stairs, heralding Martha's arrival. Castle thanked him and told the bartender to bill him for the cleaning the cellar required.

The ride to Castle's home was mostly made in silence, excepting the hum of the engine and brief greeting exchanged by his accomplice and his mother. Wisely, Martha declined to raise the topic of their clothing and the late hour which, combined, didn't leave much to the imagination. Castle kissed her on the cheek after they were safely inside the front door, "Thank you."

His mother nodded once, "Don't make a habit out of it."

"If the police come asking…" he began.

"I've got a head on my shoulders Richard. I'll tell them I didn't see anything. Now quick, go clean yourselves up in the kitchen while I find Katherine something to change into. And both of you take your shoes off here. I'll happily drive the getaway vehicle but I'll be damned before I scrub a floor at two in the morning."

Looking suitably chastened, he slipped off his shoes and shoved his socks deep in the toes.

"She'll be damned if she scrubs a floor at any time of day," he remarked to his companion once his mother was out of sight.

"Turn around Castle," Kate instructed, tonelessly, and began to peel off her stockings.

When she was done, he helped her out of both coats and folded them over his arm. In the kitchen, she ran the hot water, scrubbing her hands with dish soap while he found an old suitcase in the cupboard. He lifted it onto the kitchen table and threw in their coats, shoes and her stockings. His mother returned with a full outfit, her most conservative by his estimate which was still markedly more Vaudeville than his partner's usual tastes, and bid them goodnight.

"Try not to wake Alexis," she cautioned and closed the kitchen door behind her.

"I'll go upstairs while you change," he told her. His clothes were much less stained anyway, and he thought he could carry them down the stairs without leaving any clues.

She nodded.

Fifteen minutes later he knocked quietly on the kitchen door. She jumped at the noise, startled, then opened it hurriedly. "I put all my things in there," she told him, as he added his clothes to the top of the pile.

"Everything?" he confirmed.

"Even the money I had in my pockets."

"Good girl."

"So now what?"

"Now we drive down to the East River and find some mighty large stones," he said, decisively.

"How do you know all this?" she asked.

"Research for a novel," he held the door open for her and steadied her as she slipped on her stockinged feet. His mother's shoes were clasped in her right hand. "My second book is centred on an underground gambling ring run by gangsters."

"And you interviewed mobsters, criminals, for this book?"

"Hey, when I met you, you were itching to do the same thing, if I recall correctly."

"Yes. But that was in pursuit of justice. Did you tell the police what these gangsters told you?"

"We spoke in hypotheticals," he stopped the car and got the suitcase out, lugging it towards the river, "And given what we're about to do, I'd feel a bit hypocritical making judgements."

She was silent in response.

They piled the suitcase full of rocks until it was so heavy he could barely lift it. She bent to help him. The first hint of light allowed him to study her face. She looked resolute. Together they managed to send the suitcase tumbling down the bank and into the river. It made a dull splash then disappeared from view. The currents immediately obscured even the few bubbles it left in its wake.

"Did you kill people during the war Mister Castle?" she asked him after a long silence, as they watched the sunrise.

"Yes. Not very many up close though, mostly we just fired off shots and ran like hell," he put his hand on her shoulder, "They haunt you, but it gets easier to live with ghosts."

"That man killed my mother Mister Castle," she looked at him with a quiet fury he was afraid to question, "And as much as I'm sorry to have killed him, I'm not at all sorry he's dead."

"So what's next?" he asked.

"I expect we should be getting home before anyone sees us," she said. "I'd rather like to sleep on it."

"That thing you're sure we're missing?"

"It's been bothering me. Why would Coonan refuse to tell us who he was working for?" she turned to walk back to the car, the wind catching the few strands of her hair that had refused her attempts to re-pin them. He stared after her for a second, struggling with conflicting desires.

"Professionalism?" he offered.

"Maybe," she patted her hair down, "But I'm more inclined to think it was fear. Now, would you take me home? I'm awfully tired."

* * *

><p>After noon the next day he was waiting at her doorstep when she emerged to go about her business. She had the sense he had been waiting for several hours, which was based half on instinct, half by the pile of cigarette butts at his feet. The sky above them was a brilliant blue, unflawed by clouds, and the sunshine was a sharp contrast to the downpour of the previous night. The streets were steamy with evaporating puddles. She stared down at him with her hand on her hip until she could no longer maintain her stern expression and her lips began to give her away. At this point, she stared at her shoes.<p>

"What are you doing here Castle?"

"Couldn't sleep," he told her.

"In the street in the middle of the day?" she wasn't buying it and he wasn't selling it very well. "I'm not surprised."

He tried again, "I missed you?"

She clucked her tongue in disapproval. He couldn't tell if it was genuine or if she just thought he could come up with a better excuse.

"My mother is practicing the number at the end of act one at full volume again and I couldn't hear myself think in that house?" He paused for a moment, "That's true actually, so I hope you believed it."

"You know what they say about the boy who cried wolf," she stepped around a puddle and joined him at street level. She held up a hand to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun as she looked up at him, "I have some errands to run. I assume you'll be following me around the city all afternoon, so we'd better get on with it."

"I'll maintain a safe distance of five paces shall I?"

She quirked an eyebrow, "Do you want me to change my mind?"

"No ma'am," he shook his head. "How are you today?"

"Tired," she said flatly. "I had forgotten how difficult it is to fall asleep after dawn."

"It was a rough night," he took a gamble that he was fairly sure wouldn't pay off.

Sure enough, she pressed her lips together and gave him a look. "I'm sure that's something we don't need to discuss in the street. But it wasn't that. Something is still bothering me about the case. I feel we're on the verge of a breakthrough but I can't say why, exactly."

Having nothing to add on that particular subject, and not for want of trying – he had spent several sleepless hours staring at the ceiling of his bedroom trying to put the puzzles pieces they had uncovered the previous evening into their rightful place – he changed the subject. "Where are we off to?"

"Well I have to drop these letters off at the post office and then I'm stopping in to see Lanie. She works for my father and she's a dear friend of mine."

"And you're going to let me come?"

"Tea with Lanie is a proven cure for the world's ills," she told him, "And since you're determined to insinuate yourself into every part of my life whether I like it or not, I might as well let you come. I think she'll like you. And she'll probably challenge your ridiculous ideas."

"What about your father?"

"He's not well. I need to check on him."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Castle told her. He sounded quite genuine too, as though there was feeling behind the words instead of just politeness. She looked over quizzically but he didn't say anything else.

Within the hour, they were ascending the steps to her father's house. She used her key and called to Lanie, ushering Castle into the front room and instructing him to sit while she found her friend. Lanie was in the kitchen.

"Kate," she jumped, "I didn't hear you come in."

"I called," she said apologetically. "How's he doing?"

"He's asleep," Lanie told her, "But I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

"Actually we have company," she nodded in the direction of the other room. "I thought you could sit with us and we could have tea."

"Who is it?" Lanie peered into the hallway, as though her curiosity would let her see through the walls. Privately, the Becketts had always been good to her family, and she knew Kate hadn't even noticed the colour of her skin until they went to school, and even after that, had thought it quite silly that society carried on the way it did. Publically though, it would still raise eyebrows and her friend didn't like being the subject of anyone's gossip.

"Mister Castle," she pointedly stared at her fingers, running her nails over the counter top, avoiding Lanie's knowing look. "He insisted."

"Oh," the tone she adopted was far too goading for Kate's liking.

"Don't tease," she warned. "I want you to meet him. I think you'll like him, and I'm sure he'll like you. Besides, someone has to watch him while I visit father."

"Does he have slippery fingers?"

"No," she shook her head, "Prying eyes and an overactive imagination."

"I ran into someone on the street who was talking about you," Lanie told her as she lit the stove to re-boil the idling kettle. "He said he was a friend when I lay into him."

"Lanie! Why would you do that?"

"Gotta defend my girl's honour. He was talking to some detective about how you killed some gun-for-hire. Is that true?"

She felt as though her heart had stopped in her chest.

"Who was this man?" she asked.

"Honey, you're white as a sheet. Here, sit down," Lanie pulled one of the kitchen chairs over and she sank into it.

"Lanie, who was it?"

"He said his name was Esposito. Mexican looking fella. And he was a looker."

She exhaled in a rush of relief. "And this detective, was he Irish?"

"Yes?" Lanie put one hand on her hip and she let the tea steep, "How did you know that?"

"They're friends of Castle's."

"Oh."

"When they were talking, did they mention me by name?"

"No, but I put it together from the things they said. I take it by your reaction that there's some truth in what they said."

"He had a knife Lanie. I think he was the man who killed my mother and he was going to kill Castle. Let's not talk about it anymore. I don't want you to be hassled about it."

True to her word, Castle was casually inspecting the writing desk in the corner of the room when she returned, leaving Lanie to finish in the kitchen. He was bent over, absorbed in tinkering with the wooden panel at the back of one of the drawers, when she cleared her throat. He sat up immediately, knocking his head on the corner of the desk.

He rubbed it, gingerly.

"What are you doing Castle?" she asked, impatiently.

"Well," he leant over again and used both hands to remove a small wooden box from the drawer, "I think I'm finding something this desk's previous owner didn't want us to."

"It was my mother's," she crowded him at the shoulder, peering down at the wooden box. "What's inside?"

"Just," he tipped it upside down to spread the contents over the top of the desk, "Letters and this," he studied the photograph of her as a child for a second before setting it down again. She had already grabbed a handful of letters and opened the first eagerly. "They're from Mister Murray," she said, excitedly, "They're his responses to the other letters we found. They have a lot more information about Mister Pulgatti's case."

"This one isn't," he barely glanced at it before he closed it.

"What?" she had noted the lack of excitement in his voice. "What is it?"

He shook his head, "I don't know. I …" he handed to her, "It's addressed to you."

She opened it gingerly, finding her mother's neat script staring back. Inside her, everything stilled. She took the few steps to the couch and sank into the cushions. Castle watched her, but didn't move. He was uncharacteristically quiet. She read quickly, eyes darting backward and forward down the page, a single sheet, before refolding it and setting it down in her lap.

She took a few breaths before she spoke, "She knew Castle, she knew she was being followed, she knew they were going to kill her."

"What did it say?"

She waved a hand, "It … nothing about the case really. Just that she expected she might not be able to tell me what she had to say in person; it was advice. The things she wished she had been able to tell me. It's dated the day she died and … she had more to say; it's unfinished."

"We should read through these more carefully," he bundled the letters from Scott Murray into a pile and joined her on the sofa.

That's how Lanie found them, spinning theory, heads bent over the pile of papers. She watched for a while, though she knew she shouldn't. She couldn't say why; there was nothing scandalous about their interaction, but she simply had the sense that she was intruding on a private moment. She stood, until the tray holding the cooling tea became heavy in her hands, and then retreated to the kitchen unnoticed.

* * *

><p>Since their altercation in the street, Lanie had started to frequent Javier's in a daring scheme to win the bartender's heart and in Will's absence Kate had somehow found herself an unwilling accomplice. She supposed it kept her from spending her nights alone in the apartment, which seemed quite big without Will, reading whatever she could get her hands on. Castle had taken to giving her the latest instalment of Nicola Heat's adventures to read (and no matter how hard she argued, he refused to budge on the subject of the detective's name; in fact it seemed to be an inversely proportional relationship) – but he had been preoccupied with their investigation of late and was writing slowly.<p>

She met Lanie at eight thirty, standing at the corner of the bar with a whiskey in her hand.

"Hello," she smiled in greeting, "I hope I'm not too late."

"No, no," Lanie was already flirting with Javier shamelessly and Kate already felt like a third wheel.

She accepted the bartender's offer of a drink, but refused to lean her elbow on the sticky bar top like her friend, choosing instead to survey the crowd while taking the slightest slip of liquor.

"You came," Lanie finally turned her attentions away from the bar, "Thank you."

"You don't really need me it seems," she said into her drink.

"Nonsense, I most definitely need you. Besides, it's good for you to get out of the house for a reason other than that investigation of yours."

"I suppose we can talk here without people commenting on it," Kate relented a little. "Mister Eposito seems to like you Lanie."

"Mmmhmm," her friend took a long gulp of whiskey. "Ooh and he's free again, excuse me."

She would never admit it to him, but she was actually relieved to see Castle and Ryan at their usual table in the back corner. She touched Lanie on the shoulder, diverting her attention momentarily and nodded in their direction, "I'll leave you to it."

Lanie winked at her, "Have a good time honey."

She answered with a half-wave and picked her way through the edges of the dance floor, fringed skirt tickling her calves. Ryan saw her approach and waved her to the free seat next to Castle.

"Mrs Sorenson," he grinned the grin of an off-duty Irishmen three sails to the wind, "What a pleasant surprise."

"Katherine," Castle said in greeting, "What brings down to this disreputable establishment?"

"Lanie is making a play for your bartender."

Ryan had his usual look of mischievous amusement about him. "I'm not sure who's making a play for who. Javier was quite taken with your girl."

"_Whom_," Castle corrected automatically, then turned to Kate, "And I told you that was the beginning of a great love story."

"So it seems," she smiled at him and hid behind her glass for a moment.

Ryan drained his glass quickly, looked down as though surprised it was empty and made the excuse of needing to go to the bar to leave them alone.

"He might as well be made of cellophane," she commented dryly. "Is he sore about Coonan? I suppose we did put a kink in his murder investigation. It must have put him in an awkward position."

"Let me tell you something about Kevin Ryan," he leant in close, conspiratorially and said, "He's been put in a few _awkward positions _before. In his mind, so long as the killer is no longer at large, the case is closed."

"I see," she was in a good mood. He noticed immediately.

"Mrs Sorenson," he remarked, "I do believe your spirits have rallied."

"Perhaps they have."

"Did John Raglan write to you?"

"No," she shook her head, "But we have leads to follow now that we know Dick Coonan was the killer and they could take us in all kinds of different directions. I'm just pleased not to be at a dead end."

"I'll drink to that," he clinked his glass against hers.

"You'll drink to anything," she said, but let her glass pass to her lips just the same.

He shrugged. It wasn't exactly untrue.

She laughed suddenly and pressed a hand to her mouth. "I think Ryan has discovered a new profession."

Castle turned around to see his friend unhappily tending the bar while Esposito danced with Lanie.

"That's brave of Javier, putting an Irishman in charge of the whiskey."

She laughed at his joke.

"So, shall we join our friends? I do like this song."

The letter from her mother was tucked into her purse. She touched it briefly through the fabric; she had long ago burned its hastily scrawled wisdom into her memory. In the first day alone she must have read it a hundred times. She looked at him for a long moment, finished her drink and gave him the most brilliant smile he had ever seen on her then offered him her hand, "Oh why not?"

* * *

><p>Three weeks after Coonan was killed, they were watching Alexis doing her homework at the kitchen table, legs swinging beneath her chair.<p>

"Meredith was an actress," he told her, unprompted, "We met while I was in college; she was doing a play with my mother on Broadway. When the United States entered the war we got married. Six months later, I get a letter telling me about Alexis. Oh, I was so excited. I kept hoping I'd get injured in France and get to go home before the baby was born. Four months after that, my mother wrote me. Meredith left Alexis and took up with some director," he twisted his wedding band around in his pocket, "I haven't heard from her since."

"I'm sorry," she put a hand on his arm.

"Oh don't be," he flashed her a winning smile and she pulled her hand back to her side immediately, "If it wasn't for all that I wouldn't have been drowning my sorrows in a juice joint the night I met you honey."

"Don't call me that," she scolded, slapping his shoulder and pressing her lips together.

He grinned at her, sly. "You like it too much."

"It's wildly inappropriate."

"Well what about Katherine?"

"So long as we're in the privacy of your home or among friends," she cautioned. "So your mother looked after Alexis until you got back from Europe?"

"Yes," he fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt, "Or at least I assume she did. You never know with my mother. Alexis might've spent her first year of life backstage."

Kate shook her head.

"Did you love her Mister Castle?"

"I was twenty-one, of course I loved her," he was staring past her, unfocussed, and she felt a pang of guilt that her curiosity caused him pain.

"As much as I could," he pulled himself from his memories and met her eyes, "But things change, people grow up."

"Some people," she teased, giving him a sideways glance.

"After the war things were different."

"I know," she said, meaningfully.

"Oh?"

"Will was a doughboy. We … he asked me to marry him before he went away."

"But when he got back things were different?"

"How could they not be?"

"But not that different," he mused, talking mostly to himself. She regarded him curiously.

"Well, you married him. You loved him, love him."

She cleared her throat and looked uncomfortable, "Like you said Mister Castle, people grow up."

He changed the subject abruptly, "I bought you a present."

"What? No. You shouldn't have. I can't accept a gift from you."

"Wait until you see it first. Come on, cover those peepers."

"No."

"It's a surprise. And if you don't, I'll do it for you."

"Fine," she covered her eyes and let him lead her by the sleeve across the hall. It was colder in the study; he left the door open to let the heat from the fire in the living room warm them.

"You can open them," he directed.

She was standing in front of two chalkboards he'd had installed on the left wall of his office. They were ruled into neat columns and filled with information included photographs taped under the appropriate headings: persons of interest, suspects and victims. She read over the facts they had gathered, her mouth falling open in surprise.

"Oh wait, wait I forgot the second part," he bent over his desk and rummaged in the top draw before depositing a box of white chalk wrapped in a red bow in her hands. "For your edits and criticisms of my work, which I'm sure will be extensive."

She let the pads of her fingers rest against the board, "I can't believe how much work you put into this. It's amazing," she turned to face him, "Thank you."

"Always," he told her.

"This doesn't mean you're forgiven for the name," she tried to look stern.

"Really?"

"I'd really prefer it if you changed it. I'll help you think of a new one."

She was struggling with the knot his mother had tied in the ribbon. When he reached to help, their hands met. Her fingers paused and her breath quickened. His hands quickly stopped trying to help with the ribbon and held hers instead. She looked up, curious and he stared down at her, transfixed, and when she didn't back away, he let his thumbs trace along her wrists.

She stood completely still as he kissed her. It was the briefest brush of lips at first; her mouth was open and she sighed into it, heart drumming in her chest. The chalk fell to the floor when she curled her hands to fists, letting her fingernails dig into her palms as one of his hands tangled with her hair. Some dim part of her mind told her to protest, that it would ruin her curls, but she was distracted by the weight of his hand at her waist and his tongue in her mouth. She kissed him back with her eyes closed until she needed to breathe, lungs and cheeks burning.

He pulled back and brushed his thumb over her cheek. "Jesus Kate, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

She took a step back, trying to form words. She brought her fingers to her lips and gave him a brief, wondering look.

"I didn't mean to I just… " he shook his head once, "There's no excuse. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"I have to go," she managed to say, hurrying to the door.

"Wait," he followed her into the hall after her but she was already shrugging on her coat and pulling on her gloves. He took two steps towards her with pleading eyes but she shook her head, once, and then she was gone. He stared at the front door for a moment until his mother's hand on his shoulder shook him out of the reverie.

"Darling," she asked, "What's wrong? Kate left in a hurry."

"She had to get home," he answered, absently. "It was… nothing."

"Nothing nothing or _something_ nothing?" his mother raised an eyebrow. "Nothing a drink won't fix. Come on, I've got a stash hidden under the floor boards."

He chucked once and strode into the kitchen, "Of course you do. No mother, I'm fine."

He bent down to kiss Alexis' cheek, "I've got everything I need right here. How's your homework going sweetie?"

"Nearly done," she beamed up at him, "Can we read after this?"

"Of course."

His mother smiled at them from across the room. "Well I was going to go out, but forget it, what are we reading?"

They decided on _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ and crowded onto a single sofa in the sitting room to take turns reading.

_End Part II._


	4. Part III Summer

A quick note before we start: I was going to edit this story to take out Teh Sexy Times that occur in the next chapter, which is why updates were so sparse (it's actually been finished since, I don't know, _May_?) but then I decided I was too lazy. So we're going to up the rating to M. And I thoughtlessly forgot to add this when I updated last night, but, **trigger warning**, this chapter does contain a brief dealing with domestic violence, if that is a trigger for anybody.

* * *

><p><strong>Part III: Summer.<strong>

_New York City. July, 1925._

Though she paid lip service to God as she had been raised, she wasn't really one for fate or faith. It was a scepticism borne of necessity: the only way to rationalise a world at war and a personal tragedy in her young mind was to believe the universe was randomly cruel. She wasn't alone in her grief. In January of 1919 there were lots of lost sons and fathers. She lost her own father too, though not to the war. She was the sole witness to a tragic love story and she saw how instantly it changed him. She believed in love, feared it, because she had watched it break Jim Beckett. After the loss of her mother living in her father's house had been like living with more than one ghost. Will was a way out, travel-worn and world-weary though the war had made him, shaped him really. She had felt what she guessed she was supposed to feel, but there was no recklessness, no passion that she felt unable to control. It was safe, and it was a relief to have something in her life untouched by Johanna's death.

But six years was a long time, especially the six years between seventeen and twenty-three. She had been tempered by age and experience, shaped by her mother's death, her father's drinking and her husband's nightmares. They both longed for a world before the war for different reasons, and it had surprised her, how easy it was for two people who shared a bed and a home to become strangers. It was the sum of their collective demons she supposed. Will never talked about the war but she knew he had left part of the boy she had loved in France and it was only possible to love a memory for so long even if the associated habits persisted.

She knew plenty of men did it, had affairs, kept mistresses. Johanna had raised her to believe women should be treated equal to their male counterparts: a view society did not share in this particular realm. No one would bat an eye at a married man taking up with a young flapper but a married woman doing something similar was a punishable offense. Part of her rebelled against that double standard, but most of her was principled, and believed in honouring commitments. She still believed Will was a good man. And then there was the fear. In lots of ways it was exhilarating, to know she could feel sixteen again, with all the foolishness that entailed. Castle was fun, and she hadn't been truly carefree in years. But it was more than that, though she made a point of denying it to herself regularly. She recognised something in his expression when she caught him staring at her sometimes. It was the unquestioning, maddening sort of love her father had for her mother, and it scared her. The strength of the pull and the unknown limits of the feeling drove her from it. It was too close to obsession, to madness. She was nothing if not composed. Still, it tugged at her, unbidden, and she knew that eventually it would overtake her reason. She had no idea how she would manage that when it came. Love, real love, had a tendency to make people brave or stupid depending on your perspective. For the most part, she tended to think it was the latter.

And then there was Will.

It was a tale as old as time; she was just ashamed to be a player in it.

For his part, Castle's morals had always been accommodating. He had been experimenting with bending the rules to suit his purposes since he was a child and, having been co-parented by a dozen showgirls, the rules had been lax to begin with. Even when he was sent away to school, he had learned that the flash of his teeth and utilising his gift for words would cure most ills and solve most problems. By his estimation, it was only a minor indiscretion on her part, and as long as they never spoke of it, he could avoid any sense of guilt he might have. He did his best to quell any feelings the memory of the kiss evoked, though his subconscious made itself glaringly known in his writing. There were lots of torn up pages and hastily blacked out lines of dialogue between Nikki and her sidekick. June had been long without her, and he had tried to write to her daily. His desk was littered with forgotten drafts. He could never quite perfect the wording.

Then, on the fourth of July, she received a letter that had her halfway up the street before she quite realised her destination, or that she was breaking all her newly devised rules by doing so. The last time she had made the current journey, it had been a mild day in spring. The sunshine had been smiling down on the new life the snow had revealed, green shoots between cracks in the pavement and flowers starting to burst free of their buds on windowsills. Today it was hot and the sun was glowering down, not smiling. Sweat soaked into her hairline and the humidity was wreaking havoc on her curls. She had pulled them tight and pinned them higher than usual, leaving the nape of her neck free to catch what little breeze there was. The streets were crowded, lined with people celebrating, waving stars and stripes. It made her journey difficult. She weaved amongst the crowds, trying to keep to the shade as much as possible.

They hadn't spoken in over a month when she knocked on his door, six weeks by his count – six very long, very hot weeks. Normally he took his mother and Alexis to the seaside in the summer, but this year he hadn't wanted to leave the city, in case she found it in him to forgive him. For her part, she had been determined never to see him again, embarrassed and unsure how to address what had happened, but in the end, the pull of finding her mother's killer overcame her sensibilities.

He opened the door to a waft of muggy late afternoon air and her shining face.

"Castle," she greeted him.

"May I come in?" she asked, impatiently, after he gaped at her for several minutes.

"Yes," he said, "Of course. Please, do."

"I know you must be surprised to see me," she followed him into his study, "But something came up, something to do with my mother's murder and our investigation," she wrung the envelope between her hands before she realised what she was doing. "Sorry, here. Read this. John Raglan wants to meet us."

"After all this time you finally got through to him," he was surprised, and took the letter from its envelope, skimming its contents. "Well ok. I'm glad you came," he nodded to the seat across from him and she sat, "Do you want to go now?"

"I assume he delivered the letter in person," she said, "It isn't post-marked, which means he sent it today. I'd like to go as soon as possible, so he doesn't have a chance to change his mind."

Their detective lived in a two room apartment in a recently refurbished Civil War-era tenement building just off 14th Street in the East Village. When they reached the fifth floor, she raised her hand to knock before the door creaked, ominously. She looked at him sideways and held her finger to her lips. He nodded, pushing open the door.

"Hell-o?" she called, cautiously.

There was no answer.

The reason became apparent when they tiptoed into the room. Castle ducked into the bedroom off the hall to look for Raglan while she made for the kitchen. She stopped with her hand halfway to her mouth before she reached the doorway. Sitting in the a lone armchair in the centre of the room was John Raglan, with several pints of blood dripping from the single bullet wound in his chest. It was pooling on the floor boards, along with a pile of scattered duck feathers.

"Castle!" she called, "I don't think you're going to find him in there."

"Why? Oh," he trailed off when he rounded her shoulder, coming face to face with Raglan's corpse.

"Is he actually dead?" she asked, "If he left that note today, it can't have been too long. I didn't want to touch him though. The blood is everywhere."

"No he's dead," he pointed to his eyes, "His eyes are too wide and with that amount of blood, I'd say it was pretty quick."

She looked away, "We should look around before we call the police. I know Detective Ryan can usually get us all their information anyway, but what if he can't this time? Raglan contacted me out of nowhere today, of all days. Why? There must be some clue in all this mess."

He nodded and wiggled his fingers, "As long as we're careful about leaving prints. They'll check for those. You start in the other room. I'll work in here."

He was trying to spare her the unblinking gaze of the corpse, she knew. Ordinarily she'd think it silly, superstitious and impractical, but with Raglan, a man who had wanted to tell her something just hours before, she was grateful. She had the odd sense his dead eyes were following her.

"What could be so important they would kill you over it?" she murmured to the body as she passed. Castle was already busy going through the piles of newsprint and mail the deceased had apparently been hoarding.

She passed into the bedroom and looked for any hint of something out of place. It was, in contrast to the living room, meticulously neat. The bed was neatly made, unslept in, and aside from a thin layer of dust blanketing the nightstand, everything appeared to be in order. There was only one photograph in the entire room, a picture of a woman and two children. When she turned it over, it was dated – 1915. She doubted they lived here now, or had in many years.

There was nothing in the dresser, or on the top shelf of the closet. She found his police badge in a shoebox, along with a pistol. The drawers of the nightstand were empty apart from one or two questionable cartoons and clothes. She barely saw it when she lifted the mattress. In fact, she might have missed it entirely if she hadn't struggled so much she had to kneel on the floor to lift it. There was a tuft of stuffing escaping from the smallest of tears. She shouldered the load and managed to manoeuvre a hand in to see what was hidden there. All she found was a small notebook, barely big enough to fit in her palm, and another faded photograph. This one was of the same woman, but her shoulders were bare. She was wrapped in a sheet. Kate replaced the photograph and the mattress, and bent her head beneath the bedframe to retrieve the notebook from where it had fallen between the slats.

It contained notes, names and amounts which she presumed represented monetary transactions. They didn't mean much to her, but she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt and dusted her hands. Her pristine gloves had picked up some of the room's dust. She kept them on in spite of their dirtiness.

In the other room, Castle had found a pile of crumpled up letters.

"He wrote back to you every time," he told her, "Warning you away from this investigation with various degrees of urgency, but he obviously never sent any of them."

"Well look what happened when he did," she said quietly, gesturing to the body in the leather armchair.

"I didn't find anything else that might be useful, except for this," he held up a few newspaper clippings. "They were tucked into his copy of _Crime and Punishment_. I looked at it because it was so worn compared to his other novels."

She leafed through the pile, "So he was onto Coonan as well. He's kept the reports of every stabbing in the city in 1921."

"And did you see the last one?"

She brought it to the top and stared. It was the same woman from the photographs in the bedroom. "Mrs John Raglan," she read the caption beneath the picture. "They killed his wife?"

"So it would seem."

"I found pictures of her in the bedroom," she was absently pulling her mother's ring up and down the length of the chain as she considered this new information. She handed the wad of news clippings back to him and reached into her pocket for the notebook, "Along with this."

She deposited her find into his waiting palm, looking at his face expectantly as he poured over it.

"Do you recognise any of these names?" he asked her.

"Not a one," she shook her head. "Did you look in the kitchen?"

"No, I didn't get a chance. I was reading those articles. I'll call Ryan while you have a quick look around."

She heard him informing the detective of the murder as she opened the cupboards and searched between jars of forgotten food for any further clues. Finding nothing, she returned to the scene of the crime to find him wiping the telephone down.

"We should get out of here," she said.

He nodded. "Ryan's people will be here in twenty minutes."

They left the door as they found it and didn't stop until they were standing in the street. The crowds had thinned slightly with the sinking sun.

"I noticed you still have the chalkboards," she was carrying the copy of _Crime and Punishment _under her arm, "We should update them, sort through this new information."

"Your husband won't miss you?"

"He's working. The holiday is a busy day for them. Did you have plans with Alexis?"

"They'll keep. She might be a little young to run around with sparklers anyway."

When they arrived at his house, his mother was fussing in the kitchen over something that smelled exotic and Alexis was sitting in the front room with her nose pressed to the window, waiting for the first of the street fireworks.

"Mother's been on a quest to master Chinese cooking," he told her, explaining the smell. "One of women at the theatre, an immigrant, gave her the recipes. I hope you're adventurous."

She was about to respond when his daughter launched herself about his middle in a whirl of white stockings and red curls.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy," Alexis sang, "You're home, you're home. I want to watch the fireworks."

"It's not dark yet pumpkin," he hugged her close and lifted her off the ground, spinning her in a full circle. "And I have some work to do with Mrs Sorenson. Say hello."

Alexis gave her a very formal nod and said, with an earnestness only a child could muster, "Hello Mrs Sorenson, please come in."

Kate had to fight a laugh, "Hello Alexis."

"You promise we can light the sparklers after dinner?" the child turned back to her father, who bent to her eye level and nodded solemnly, "But only if you're a good girl."

Alexis smiled sweetly, "I'm always a good girl."

Her father laughed and ruffled her hair, ruining the good work of her grandmother had put in to tame her fiery curls. "Ah, that's my girl. We'll have a tongue on you yet. Why don't you go see if your Gram needs help in the kitchen?"

"Already did," she crossed her arms, "She shooed me."

"Well," he reached under her arms to find a well-known ticklish spot and wriggled his fingers, menacingly. She writhed with laughter. "If you promise to be very quiet, you can bring your book into the study and watch by that window for any fireworks."

The little girl tore off to find her latest reading material, the thrill of being allowed in a usually forbidden room driving her fast footsteps.

"Everyone's home," he turned back to his companion and shrugged apologetically, "So there might be a few distractions."

Kate was staring after his daughter thoughtfully. "That's all right," she murmured, then followed him into the dark study. He flipped the light switch, illuminating the room. Along the right wall, their chalkboards sat undisturbed since he had first shown them to her. She strode purposefully over to them and appraised the sum of their work cautiously. He wisely chose to remain behind his desk.

They worked efficiently, Kate as scribe, adding the information uncovered in Raglan's apartment under his name with a line connecting him to Johanna Beckett's murder and another to the isolated name of his partner. They only got halfway through the newspaper clippings. Alexis had inherited a fraction of her father's curiosity that bordered on nosiness, and while she was more polite, she still had lots of questions. And before Castle was done thinking of age-appropriate answers, Martha announced dinner was served.

Kate tried to make an excuse to leave, but they were only half-done with the work and she wouldn't be missed at home; add the fact that Martha could be awfully persuasive when it came to hospitality and her resistance was token. She found she quite enjoyed Chinese food, even with the added challenge of eating with chopsticks. (They were a gift from Martha's friend, and the actress was seemingly an expert.) They were only half-finished eating when, with the first crack of fireworks, Alexis was gone from her seat despite her grandmother's scolding and at the front window.

Later, Castle retrieved the box of sparklers from its hiding place and beckoned his daughter out onto the porch, showing her how to hold the flammable end away from her. He demonstrated once, then lit Alexis'. It fizzled to life in her hands, and in her surprise she let it fall to the ground. He replaced it with another. This time, she held it at arm's length and clamoured down the stairs into the street to play with the other children.

Kate was watching from the doorway, a silhouette against the well-lit hall. Castle waved her over. "Come on, you can have one too if you'd like."

She shook her head no, but joined him on the stairs. They sat a respectable distance apart and watched his daughter trailing coloured embers behind her.

When the fireworks began in earnest several streets over, he called Alexis back and she dragged him inside and up the stairs by an impatient hand. Martha ushered Kate along with them, into her bedroom on the upper floor. He had already opened the windows to the street and was sitting with his daughter cradled in his lap on a window seat. Alexis' legs were hanging out the window, drumming against the brownstone in excitement, and her hands were pressed against her ears in anticipation. He looked back at Kate and patted the space next to Alexis.

"Am I intruding on your tradition?" she hesitated.

"Not at all," he smiled at her over Alexis' head, "You're always welcome."

At that, the first roman candles burst not one street over, a series of loud cracks followed by golden sparks fading to smoke against the skyline. Kate sat, properly at first, and they watched Catherine wheels paint the sky with colour. She relaxed after the first few rounds of sound and colour though, pulling her knees up beneath her skirt to sit more comfortably on the window seat. He watched more of her face than he did of the light display, though she was too distracted to notice; she stared with the same wonder as Alexis did at the sky. The neighbourhood put on a fine show for nearly a half hour, including a sky rocket that burst just above his roof, fired off almost directly below them.

When there were only firecrackers left, he stood and pulled Alexis into his arms, declaring it time for bed. The child protested only feebly; face already drooping into his shoulder. He excused himself and left Kate with his mother, who was fanning them both with a paper fan she'd stolen from the theatre. They chatted amiably about nothing in particular until something she said reminded the actress of a show she'd worked on in her travelling troupe days.

("BC, as I like to call them," she joked behind her hand, "Before Castle."

Kate grinned.)

The story flowed freely into the next, and Kate found herself entirely charmed by the older woman with her interesting life. She'd left home at fifteen, unhappy with the idea of marrying the son of a wealthy family from Connecticut that her father had business dealings with, and had made a life for herself almost single-handedly. Thirty years later she was back in New York, two marriages and as many divorces and a small fortune behind her, with an adult son and a more legitimate theatre company to her name. Completely accidentally, Martha Rodgers was a model women's rights activist in Kate Sorenson's eyes; she had lived the life she wanted to live and didn't apologise to anyone for it. There was something admirable about that; it took a lot of courage.

Kate was just promising to attend Martha's next production when Castle reappeared in the doorway. Martha gracefully excused herself when she saw her son. She pulled him into the brightly lit hallway before he had a chance to say anything and swatted him with the fan. He turned wide-eyed to ask what warranted the assault, but never got the chance.

"If you're thinking of using your family to charm her I've got news for you kiddo; that woman is smarter than you, and don't you ever forget it."

"I wasn't!" he was affronted by the suggestion, "I. Mother! She's _married_."

Martha waved a finger at him, "And don't you forget _that_either."

"I would never."

"Richard, the way you were staring at her… I know that look."

"Well a look never hurt."

"Well, make sure you look with your eyes and not your hands."

A melodramatic line about looking with his heart came to mind. His mother probably would have appreciated it, but he kept it to himself. He wasn't ready to become a hack.

"I always do," he informed her primly, trying to maintain an air of insult as he re-entered the bedroom.

"I'm sorry to get so distracted from the things we found in Raglan's apartment," he said, joining her again at the window sill. He sat beside her, further away this time. She let her hand trace the space between them absently.

"Couldn't be helped," she looked over at him with a small smile, "Besides, you have a good view."

She gestured to the skyline which was still intermittently lit by exploding bursts of colour. Her fingers were clutching at her mother's ring again. He wondered if she knew that she did it.

"What's that?" he asked on impulse, reaching out to take it from her hand. The touch lingered and he saw her falter for a second, before she pulled her hand away quickly, leaving the gold band with its single diamond resting in his palm.

"It was my mother's," she said simply. "It's… it's an heirloom in my father's family. The oldest son has given it to his wife since before anyone can remember. I ruined the tradition," she was pensive. He looked over, questioning.

"Oh, by being a girl," she explained, "And I was their only child. There were … complications. My mother couldn't have any more children after I was born. But that never seemed to bother my father. He carried on all his traditions through me just the same as if I was a son."

"Is that how you learnt how to shoot?"

She laughed. "Among other things. My mother was meant to give this to me on my wedding day," she leant over and traced the band with her finger, "But she died before Will and I were married."

"Why don't you wear it?" he let her take it back from his hand and slip it down her front.

"I don't know," she held it flat against her chest with her palm, "Because she was meant to give it me, she was meant to be there. And at the time, it seemed like wearing it would just be a reminder that she wasn't."

"And now?"

"Well now I have this one," she answered lightly, over the sound of one last round of firecrackers from the street. The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder. It stung at his eyes and in his throat. He caught the wink of a diamond on her hand as she waved her fingers at him.

"It's late," he stood and offered her a hand, "We can finish sorting through our new clues ctomorrow."

She stood and smoothed her skirt, confused by his abrupt dismissal. "Ok. Goodnight Castle."

"Goodnight."

She missed his usual _until tomorrow_ and let herself be confused by it all the way home.

* * *

><p>The next day was a Sunday and Sunday meant church. Church meant a blue dress so light it was almost white with a modest hemline and far too many tiny buttons along her back which required a contortionist's effort to fasten. She was distracted during the service, gloved hands gripping the hymn book in her hands absently. The wooden pews were hard and uncomfortable, no matter which way she twisted and turned. She had the strong feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around once, furtively – there was no need to give the old ladies more to talk about – but couldn't see any one's eyes on her. She turned next to her, to observe Will, but he was concentrating on the preacher's words. Stilled by guilt, she closed the hymn book and folded her hands and tried to still her undevout limbs. Even the fear of God, which was more habit than the product of an intellectual belief, couldn't quell the hairs on the back of her neck. It wasn't an uncomfortable scrutiny though; it felt familiar. And with that, she whirled around and caught him looking, six rows over and across the room. He smirked when their eyes met and nodded ever so slightly.<p>

She gave him a glare, and stubbornly refused to look back for several minutes.

When he caught her looking back a second time, she actually felt herself blush. She was furious at everything for several minutes; at him for following her here, at her traitorous biology for giving way to her embarrassment, at her pride and at the stupid service which was moving with all the speed of a lazy snail. She took a few deeper breaths, and tapped her foot, impatiently.

Then, determined to ignore him, she tried to focus on the words of the bishop, instead of just mumbling the automatically appropriate responses at the correct times. As a motivator, it turned out the obstinacy in her nature was more powerful than her faith. She briefly wondered what that said about her as a Christian. Nevertheless, she managed to avoid his eyes until after the processional hymn when Will turned to the family behind them and greeted one of his friends. She shot one last, particularly scathing glare in Castle's direction and shook her head firmly.

The message, she thought, was clear. _Don't talk to me here._

She silently prayed he understood her. It was the place for it, after all.

Most niceties and social graces were reserved for outside the church so at length they joined the crowd of people pouring into the aisles. She was halfway to the door when she felt a hand on her arm, pulling her aside.

She looked around. Will was no longer behind her; in fact, Castle had quite effectively yanked her into one of the many alcoves in the cathedral. The sun shone through the stained glass window above them. She pulled her arm free of his hand. "_What_are you doing here?"

"You're mad," he looked suitably chastened; "I hoped you wouldn't be mad."

"Castle what if someone sees? Don't you know that if they'd run information through church-going women, the war would have been over in months?"

"Well, just," he groped around at the small pile of candles in front of the stand in front of them and fumbled with a matchbook, "Pretend you're lighting a candle. I'm told people do that. It could be for your mother."

She looked at him sideways, feeling the unique blend of frustrated and touched he always managed to evoke. "Fine. That doesn't answer my question though. What are you doing here? And don't tell me you're here for the service, I've never seen you before."

"We're an equal opportunity family when it comes to religion," he shrugged, "Which means that usually we ignore all of them equally."

"Well then?"

"I came to talk to you," he said, like it was obvious, lighting his own candle and placing it on the stand next to hers, "We never finished talking about Raglan last night."

"Well I was escorted out in a hurry," she followed his lead when he clasped his hands and bent his head as though praying, though they probably looked anything but subtle and completely ridiculous. His attempts at subterfuge appeased her slightly.

"I'm sorry," he sounded genuinely contrite, "That was rude of me."

"Well. You still shouldn't have followed me here. It's hardly the time or the place to continue talking about a murder."

He shook his head once. "Maybe my candle is for Raglan."

"If you're going to light one for each of our victims, you'd better find a quarter or two to put in that collection box. Besides, if he was murdered, he must have been involved somehow."

"Even murderers, if that's even what Raglan was, deserve candles Mrs Sorenson."

"For a self-confessed secularist, that's very Christian of you Mr Castle."

"Or just very decent of me. You're right though, this isn't the time or the place. I've been thinking though, McAllister was Raglan's partner. I'd wager there's a good chance they worked together in their off-duty pursuits too, but that aside, he's still the only person I can think of who might be able to tell us more about Raglan until Ryan works his magic."

"And how are you suggesting we find McAllister?"

"I've been practicing my poker face."

"That _place _again?" she tapped her toes against the floor, "I can't go tonight. Will leaves at the end of the week."

"Speaking of, you'd better be on your way. End of the week… so I'll see you Saturday?"

"I…" she hesitated, "Ok. And you'll let me know if Ryan finds anything in the meantime?"

"Of course."

She paused in the archway, hand trailing along the stone walls of the church. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to stand here a while longer."

She left him bent over their candles.

* * *

><p>The oppressive heat of the day had waned slightly, leaving a thin layer of dew over grass, leaves, railings and car roofs. He'd had to wipe it off the windshield. The haphazard path of his hands across the glass left their view of the dark street framed by a glistening layer of moisture. The alleyway was empty as it had been for the two hours they had spent watching the exit of McAllister's building.<p>

She was wearing a blue-green dress embroidered with pink roses. It had a fashionable hemline that made it difficult to sit both modestly and comfortably. She adjusted her skirt and the leather of the seats crunched beneath her.

"I don't think he's coming," she absently picked at a stray thread sticking out of her upper thigh.

"Just a few more minutes," he promised.

He'd been promising for half an hour. She'd started to seriously doubt his word.

She looked over to tell him so but paused at the comical sight of him peering through the same binoculars ladies used at the opera. She allowed herself one huff of air that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

"What?" he looked at her sideways.

"Nothing," she turned back to what they'd long ago decided was McAllister's window. The lights were still on, but she couldn't see anything. "Do those actually work?"

"Well enough," he pulled them from his face and turned to her. Their faces were closer than he realised and for a brief second, she thought he was going to close the distance. She recoiled at the idea, pulling back slightly, but her heart betrayed her, picking up the pace of its rhythmic pumping. She made a face at herself which he thought was for him.

"I'm sorry to bore you," he managed to sound the slightest bit wounded.

"A necessary evil," she told him. "I'm just not sure McAllister isn't doing exactly what I'd like to be doing right now."

"Oh? What's that?" he gave her the wicked look that had become so familiar to her. She didn't have the heart to tell him he had a wildly overactive imagination in that department. Besides, it was better to keep him guessing. She was honest though; his stomach for scandalous remarks was much stronger than hers.

"Reading in bed," she said over her shoulder at him, turning her body to look out the window.

"I could tell you a story," he offered.

"Another one of your theories?"

"No, I'm still working on that. But I do this for a living. I'm sure I could think of something."

"By all means, go ahead."

"On the brilliant morning following a tempestuous night, a body is uncovered on a country estate..."

"Always murder with you," she interrupted. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the literary and sometimes real fascination with murder?"

"Well, what else is there?" he asked, "Seriously though. There's love, but what could I write about love that hasn't been written before? There's sex, but the censors don't like that. And then there's death."

"What about life?"

"No one can really write about life," he said, "That's what happens when even writers aren't paying attention. Besides, I don't write about murder because I'm fascinated with death, no, quite the opposite. I write about death because it's a way for me to write about how the living cope when we're reminded of our inescapable fate."

"And love?"

"All stories are love stories," he was being smart with her, but in that irritating way he had of being _right _when he did it, "Inescapable fate remember?"

"You really think it's that simple?"

"There are truths to our existence, my little detective," he'd taken to calling her that. She supposed that as pet names went, it was better than _honey_. "And one is that nothing is simple. But love, real love, sure, that's inescapable. Even when it seems impossible, you look back and see that the universe lays down its obstacles and its aides at exactly the right moments and the sum of your life has led you to a point."

"And that point?"

"We all control our own destinies," he shrugged and turned away from her, "As much as we can. There's always a point where you make a choice. Sometimes that feels inevitable, I think that's especially true when you really love. But it can be complicated. There are other choices, honour and duty and justice, to name a few."

"What would you choose?"

"Oh," he looked pensive, "I've never been one to deny myself an indulgence. I've chosen love many times, probably when I shouldn't have."

"Alexis' mother?"

"Mmm, among others. I won't tell you. It will insult your principles to hear it and it'll insult my pride when you lecture me. Suffice to say even Ryan teases me about being sentimental."

"Really?" she gave him a disbelieving look.

"I know right? It's embarrassing. Ryan, of honey milk infamy, thinks I'm the romantic."

"Are you?"

"Oh no," he shook his head, "My dear, you will have to try harder for that confession."

"Don't tempt me," she said, peering out to see the nary a shadow grace the window of McAllister's apartment. Nothing had changed.

He grinned at her, appreciatively. He always liked it when she threw a proper innuendo his way.

"There's no need to pretend to be shallow," she said, settling back in her seat.

"We all have our armour, the things we hide behind."

"I," she hesitated, her senses halting the sentence on her tongue. _You don't have to hide from me_. "What happens next in your story Castle?"

He told her, weaving the tale expertly. It was slightly Shakespearean – he'd borrowed almost all of the plot from _Macbeth_– and when she didn't call him on it he realised she was starting to fall asleep.

"Should I take you home?" he asked her, nudging her awake gently.

"No, no, what if he leaves?" she blinked up at the window, which remained lit and empty.

"I can wait," he offered.

"No, I'll sleep now. Wake me when you get tired."

She pulled a shawl from her purse and wrapped it around her bare shoulders. "Well, continue your story. I'm just dying to know if the president's daughter uncovers her husband's treachery."

"Oh you know she will."

He talked until her head dropped against the back of the seat then unconsciously slid closer, unable to resist pushing the wave of her hair behind her ear. He pulled his hand back almost immediately but she didn't stir. His momentary alarm faded, and he settled down to watch her sleep, keeping one eye on McAllister's apartment.

He'd come to the startling realisation he was completely in love with her. He wasn't sure exactly when it had happened. Certainly, he'd been fond of her since the moment he'd met her. She'd been a puzzle – a beautiful puzzle with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, all qualities he prized in a woman. But it was more than fascination, more than fondness, and it had been for some time. He had realised it when she tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. It was sudden, but as soon as it struck him he felt as though he must have always loved her. He'd opened his mouth to tell her too, but then remembered everything, her husband, her mother's murder and most importantly, the way the reality of their situation might sting worse than the slap he was sure would follow any confession on his part. So instead, he contented himself with trying to please her in small ways, devoting his attentions to her mother's murder and his book, since she had become an avid reader.

She made a sleepy noise of content and shifted, so her head rested against his shoulder. He looked down, considered his options and decided letting her kill him when she woke up was worth it. He let his head rest against her hair until McAllister's light went out.

* * *

><p>The next morning, she blinked the sleep out of her eyes and stretched her stiff neck until she felt the resistance of his head. Surprised, she cautiously pulled back, careful not to wake him until she had shuffled to a more respectable distance. The windshield was once again covered in perspiration. She whacked him in the shoulder to rouse him.<p>

"Huh, what?" he sat up and looked reproachful. "What was that for?"

"You snore," she said pettily.

"I do not."

"How would you know? Besides, you were meant to wake me."

"Sorry. Do you think he's still there?"

Her stomach growled. "I don't know, but I'm starving."

"There's a bakery down the street. Wait here, I'll be back in a second."

He was out the door before she had a chance to protest, but he darted back to hand her something. She looked over to see the binoculars being thrust in her direction.

"Fat lot of good that'll do," she muttered to herself, getting out of the car to wipe the windshield with her shawl.

He returned comically balancing two ceramic cups of black coffee and a paper bag between his hands.

"What on earth have you got there?" she called through the window.

"Breakfast," he grinned. "Now open the door for me."

She obliged, and took the cup he handed her.

"There was a diner opposite the bakery," he said when he'd slid back into the driver's seat. He lay the paper bag between them. "I convinced them to let me keep the crockery for a generous tip."

She inspected the spoils of his journey quizzically, and, finding the bag full of donuts, procured herself a sugared treat delicately. "For breakfast? Really?"

He picked one out and dipped it in his coffee. "Why not?"

"It's like eating popcorn for dinner," she ate it anyway, "But I'm too hungry to care. I didn't see McAllister. Maybe he likes to sleep in."

That proved to be untrue though. Their policeman emerged shortly after they'd finished their breakfast. She put the empty coffee cups in the paper bag and lay it at her feet as he started the car. They lurched forward, following McAllister at the agonising pace required to keep a respectable distance. Luckily, there was no traffic behind them. She felt the strong urge to fidget as they did, but settled for clenching her fingers together just once; then, again, she was the picture of composure.

They were both thinking two steps ahead, wondering where McAllister could be going. She searched the crowds for the back of his jacket and held it, picturing the street.

"The station," she exclaimed, just as he did.

"Well we'd better ditch this car," he said.

She was already gathering her things into her lap and as soon as he'd slowed to an almost stop, she opened the door and fell onto her heels, running after McAllister. He hastened his movements to catch her, and it became a comical three-part chase worthy of their own silent film. He could imagine the pianist hammering on the keys as he wove through the crowds. He lost sight of her after he ran down the steps into the subway station, but continued his pace until a fierce tug at his jacket pulled him against the wall. She jabbed a finger in McAllister's direction.

"He's buying a ticket for the 4 train," she informed him, "But we have to be careful. He might recognise us."

"The Sea Beach Line? I'll buy us tickets. And it's fine if he does recognise us, so long as it doesn't look like we're following him."

"Sure, and you're about as inconspicuous as a bull in a china shop, so I see no problem with that plan," she muttered under her breath, but he was already off to make the purchase. He came back with two tickets to the end of the line and a newspaper to loiter behind. "To make us feel like proper detectives," he told her.

She rolled her eyes.

* * *

><p>McAllister took the train all the way to Coney Island. They followed him down Stillwell Avenue to Surf Avenue, past Feltman's down to the Bowery. Ahead, their quarry side-stepped a freak advertising a side show and slipped into Steeplechase Park.<p>

The fairground was loud and littered with popcorn and cigarette butts. Children, sticky with cotton candy, ran underfoot, screaming from one diversion to the next. Jaunty music advertised each attraction in turn. Beyond the Ferris wheel was a small hot dog stand, and beyond that, McAllister had taken pause. He was smoking a cigarette. They paused and observed him through the gaps in the metal, the rotating cars periodically swaying through and obscuring their view. She pressed up against the fence surrounding the wheel, hands gripping the metal bars, and craned her neck until he pulled her back, lightly, by the top of her dress.

"You'll lose part of your face doing that," he told her, "And it's a nice face. We wouldn't want that."

She stuck her tongue out at him, good and proper, suddenly overcome by the urge to be childish.

He nearly laughed. "Look, we can see well enough from here. No use getting closer and spooking him."

"I suppose you're right," she conceded, unhappily.

"Oh look, who have we here?" he remarked, drawing her attention back to their mark. McAllister was meeting a man. Their body language was terse.

"Obviously not good news," Castle remarked.

Kate nodded. The face of McAllister's companion went so cold upon hearing whatever was related, she imagined a chill down her back. The man was stern featured, with a crop of red hair cut in military fashion and a severe beard. He looked incapable of happiness. He did smile at McAllister after a fashion, but it was more of a sneer. She tensed when he reached into his jacket. Castle and McAllister mirrored her stance.

When he began to run, she was already chasing him. Castle was behind her again. They pushed through the line to ride the Ferris wheel roughly, yelling apologies in their wake. The man had a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants; she could see it when his jacket flapped up behind him in the wind. His hand was on it, but he had yet to draw the weapon.

She had to run with her weight on her tip toes lest her heels sink into the soft ground. It made her slower than she might have been. Castle caught up, slowing to a trot beside her. She picked up her pace.

McAllister and his hunter took a sharp right, down past a series of ring toss games and clowns with open mouths and rotating heads. The various tunes emanating from tinny speakers grew louder in her ears as she passed them, in pursuit. The men they were chasing pushed several children out of the line-up for a haunted house. By the time they made it inside, there was no sign of them. Castle yelped, girlishly, when a skeleton fell from the ceiling to greet them. She looked back, lips twitching, but refrained from commenting. Pushing through the cobwebs, they were heralded into the next room by cackles of ghoulish laughter and one, angry expletive yelled from the room beyond. She threw her hands out to steady herself when they found themselves on a bridge surrounding by a rolling cylinder. Clawing their way across, they faltered down a set of stairs until finally, they found themselves in a hall of mirrors. She stumbled forward but found her hands pressing against glass. Disorientated, she felt along the surface, looked down at her feet then back at her companion. Castle was transfixed by their warped reflections.

"Where'd they go?" he asked her, absently.

She grabbed his sleeve, "This way."

They fumbled through, finally finding the steps leading through a curtain and into the light. Castle tapped her shoulder as they descended quietly, gesturing behind him, indicating that he would go first. She gave him a look, and peered out through the curtain into the daylight. The attraction emptied into a grassy row, lined with closed attractions. It was deserted, and surprisingly quiet. She held her hand up to the glare of the sun and inspected the neat rows of tents extending in both directions.

"Which way now?" her companion asked.

Overhead, a gull cried and drew her attention to the soft roll of the ocean in the distance. "I don't know. We must be heading away from the park," she said. "You go that way and I'll go this way."

"I don't think we should split up," he argued.

"I…" she was about to protest, and vigorously, when the crack of a gunshot down the hill a ways drew their attention.

Castle drew his finger to his lips. She nodded. Pressed against the side of the silent amusements, either broken down or newly ready to be unveiled, they approached the source of the sound. They dramatically rounded several corners to find themselves still alone until finally, they found themselves at a gap in the fence. He pulled back the wire and ushered her through. The roads around this part of the village were quieter. Most of the tourist attractions were closer to the main boardwalk or the subway station. Her heels seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.

It made them both uneasy.

They crossed the street and were unsure of how to proceed until she pointed wildly at a large blood stain. The trail led down a narrow alley, which was deserted but for McAllister's body at the end of its length. He had slumped back against a dumpster and slid to the floor, leaving a dramatic trail of blood in his wake. It had been recent; the blood hadn't dried. Kate covered her mouth with her hand, but didn't flinch. She stepped closer, peering down at the body. Castle lingered behind her.

"Don't," he said. "He's definitely dead."

"I know," she looked back over her shoulder, bent at the waist, "I want to see if he had anything interesting on him."

"You'll get blood on your gloves."

She swiftly removed them, and carefully peeled back McAllister's jacket. A gurgle of air escaped his dead lungs as she searched his body. Castle looked away. Her fortitude wasn't in vain though, and she emerged clutching a single scrap of paper containing an address.

"What do you think it is?" she asked him.

He took it from her and watched as she wiped her fingers against the dead man's collar. When they were clean, she replaced her gloves.

"I don't know. It's in New York though."

"So?" she looked over at him, "Back we go?"

"We'll get the next train," he agreed.

They set off back towards the fairground at a brisk pace, the page stuffed firmly into her purse.

The bullet came from behind them. She jumped at the sound. It whistled over her head and shattered a window. Castle pulled her to the ground. They fell, hard. She felt the protest of her knees as the gravel tore through her stockings and into her skin.

He pulled at her hand.

She fought to her feet and ignored the sting of the fall, shuffling along pressed to the side of the ride.

"Come on," he urged her onward.

She followed, blindly. They were running outright now, still low to the ground.

"I couldn't tell where it came from," he told her, "But when we get to the open ground, run as fast as you can when I tell you."

They paused for cover behind a car and he searched the windows overhead for any sign of the shooter. "He couldn't have much range," he continued, musing out loud. "It was a hand gun that killed McAllister, not a sniper's rifle. And I can't see him. Come on. Go."

He let go of her hand and she lost track of him for a few moments, sprinting with a hammering heart across the road and through the gap in the fence and across the expanse of grass between it and the fairground proper. There was the crack of shots behind them. One whizzed past her ear close enough that she felt it. She didn't stop running. He was at her back when they reached the row of deserted attractions. He pulled her by the shoulder back through the rows until they were facing the summer crowds again, backs pressed against the stairs that led to the entrance of the house of horrors they had run through earlier. She found her breath coming quickly and took a few deep pulls of air to steady it.

He looked down at her, panting himself, eyes wide. "He must have seen us."

"He didn't follow us," she chanced a look back the way they had come.

"No," he agreed, "I expect he shot at us from quite a distance when we ran across the street. From the looks of McAllister he had decent aim too, so that's probably all that saved us."

She nodded, dumb with the thrill of fear, her hands still behind her back and pressed against the splintering wood of the attraction.

"Kate!" he said suddenly, sounding more than alarmed. "You've got blood on you."

"I," she pressed her hand to her stomach, "It's not mine. It must be McAllister's."

"Are you sure?" he reached over and felt along her bodice, "You don't feel faint?"

"I'm _fine_," she reiterated as he pulled her against him in a brief hug. His hand smoothed over her hair and she froze, unsure of how to respond, as he held her under his chin. He released her just as quickly as he'd grabbed her and took two steps back.

"I'm sorry," he stared at his feet. "I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you because of me."

"Don't be silly," she folded her arms, "I'd be here with or without you. You probably saved my life just now."

"We should get out of here before that fella gets it into his head to come looking for us."

"Yes," she agreed, "I'd quite like to get home."

He stared down at the stain on her dress. "I'll have to buy you a new outfit. There's no way it won't draw attention, catching the subway with that on you."

She shook her head and brandished several yards of fabric from her purse. He wondered how they all fit. "I brought a shawl. That ought to cover it."

She arranged it less-than-fashionably, but so it covered her entire middle. She nodded for him to appraise her work. When he gave his approval absent-mindedly, she reached over and snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Come now, we're hitting on all six after today. The worst that's happened is I've torn my stockings. Stop fretting."

"We were nearly shot," he said, "How can you be so calm? What about my mother and Alexis?"

She suddenly felt incredibly ashamed. She'd been so busy distracting him from his concern for her that she hadn't even thought about his family, or him. She let her hand rest against his arm, "We're fine. It could have been worse, but it wasn't. Let's just be grateful for that and go home."

They rode the subway back to the city in silence. She was searching for words and he was arranging them for the page in his head. He was aching for his daughter, she could see it on his face, so she told him she would walk home. The apartment was empty. She slipped out of her shoes at the front door and pulled off her stockings. Barefoot, she carried them into the kitchen and buried them in the trash. She went into the bathroom and ran the water until it scalded. The shawl was salvageable she thought, unwinding the cloth and inspecting the underside for blood. The stain would soak out. Her dress, on the other hand – she turned side to side, inspecting the damage in the mirror – well, she could hardly make it worse. She tested the bath water with her hand and stepped in, fully clothed. The water turned to rusty red as she lay back, dress heavy with water and scraped knees stinging, and closed her eyes.

* * *

><p>Hal Lockwood was finishing a whiskey in a private corner of a more reputable establishment than he was usually accustomed to frequenting. The man across from him was wearing an impeccably tailored suit and used his words sparingly. He reeked of power, confidence; he commanded a room. A Republican Party pin winked over at Lockwood from the crisp white hint of his collar peeking out from beneath the other man's dinner jacket. The whiskey was the good stuff, straight from Canada. The city by the lake had its perks.<p>

"How long do you expect to be in town?" his boss asked him.

"After we get the call," he shrugged and ran his fingers through his red curls, "Not long. Once this is done, Pulgatti is the only loose end left, and I'll need to be sent to Sing Sing to finish the job."

"Which means a crime, on the streets of New York," the senator curled his fingers around the gilded handset as though commanding it to ring.

"And then a daring prison escape," he nodded, "And a comfortable retirement down in the Caribbean, as we arranged."

"Pulgatti is a problem," he scowled, "Should have sent him to the chair when we had the chance."

"He's a businessman," Lockwood countered, "And he owes you for not killing him sooner. He might be persuaded to see things our way. I've heard he has an in with that pesky woman and her writer."

"It's too big a risk. Besides, I was assured you could take care of things."

"If necessary," Lockwood stared at the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. "It's also my job to keep you abreast of your options, share my expertise in this area."

"It's my experience that there is no honour among thieves," the other man told him plainly.

The telephone ringing cut their conversation short. Brief words were exchanged; that was his cue. His mark was on the move. He nodded to his boss and took his leave.

The Windy City was living up to its sobriquet. Roy Montgomery had to hold his hat to his head as he made his way back to the flophouse serving as his temporary home. He'd known they'd be after him. As soon as he heard Raglan had been killed, he'd run across the country. He was waiting a week until he could sneak away to Canada out of the reach of the senator and his men. His wife and children had gone ahead, but he'd had business to attend to, lucrative business that would ensure they could comfortably re-establish themselves north of the border. He wrestled for the key in the pocket of his coat, sneaking a glance over his shoulder. He didn't think he had been followed, but you could never be too careful.

The lock turned when he jiggled it just so, and he took the stairs two at a time, not pausing until he was safely inside the sparse room. He threw his coat down on the bed and removed his purchase from the front pocket. On the desk in the corner was an envelope, already addressed and containing several similar items. He tucked the pièce de résistance inside and licked the glue. It tasted chemical on his tongue. As he pressed the seal closed, a knock on the door distracted him.

There was no peephole.

He answered it with his weapon drawn, expecting one of his business associates or their messenger, running by his payment. Instead, his eyes met with the steel gaze of Lockwood. He moved to close the door but wasn't fast enough. Lockwood prised it open.

They stood, eyeing each other.

"Are you going to make me shoot you in the hallway Roy?" Lockwood asked, "Because I'll do it."

"I should ask you the same question." He stepped aside and let the assassin into the room, all his self-preservation instincts screaming. He ignored them. The boss wanted blood, and if the past decade had taught him anything, it was that his boss had a bloodlust that was not easy to ignore. He thought briefly of his family as he had last seen them, waving through the window of the train. He had told his wife not to write; he hoped they had made it across the border.

The tension in the pause stretched to breaking.

His finger itched over the trigger.

In the end, it was quick. Lockwood moved first, firing two shots into his stomach. He managed to squeeze off two shots, one of which met its mark and embedded itself in Lockwood's shoulder; the other found a home in the hardwood of the door. He felt himself fall to the floor. The world slipped out of focus at the edges. He saw Lockwood looming over him and concentrated every last thought on sending impulses through the nerves in his trigger arm. Initiating the movement seemed to take an age, but when he finally moved it was surprisingly fast. He emptied the weapon in Lockwood's general direction. The loud curse that punctuated his efforts told him he hadn't missed. It was peaceful after that; he felt consciousness slipping away and recalled the familiar words of scripture until they died with him.

Lockwood stepped over the body, avoiding the pool of blood seeping out from beneath the dead man and stumbled over to the open window. He clutched his chest, trying to still the bleeding, but coming up short. His own blood made the window sill slippery. He managed to climb down the fire escape, leaving bloody hand prints, and fell to the street with a dull thud. Above him, he heard the manager of the flophouse beating on the door which he had locked behind him. He tried to stand but felt faint. He pulled open his shirt to inspect the damage and there it was, staring back at him, a gaping hole in the usually taut flesh. There was no plugging that. A crowd of people had started to gather around him. He hoped to God he died. His boss would never forgive the spectacle. With that thought, his head fell back, muscles slack, and he passed out.

In the small room on the first floor, the manager had finally succeeded in prying open the door.

"_Mio dio_," he stared at the ceiling, "Not another one."

He yelled for his assistant to telephone the police then followed the blood trail to the window. There was another body in the street below. He sighed at the crimson stains covering the room; blood was so hard to get out of the carpets. He stooped to make sure the tenant was properly dead before carefully appraising the contents of the room. There were no valuables, no surprises there, but he lived in hope. Gangsters on the run should have to pay an upfront cleaning fee, he thought. They never had anything on them to make their untimely deaths worth his while. In his search, he found the parcel on the desk addressed to a Katherine Sorenson in New York City. He tucked it under his arm and went downstairs to meet the police, leaving it with the other mail on his way out.

* * *

><p>The address she had lifted from McAllister's body proved to be in an office building down in the business district. After much collusion and debate, they decided mounting a break-in after dark would be safest. They were feeling cautious after the near-shooting at Coney Island, and neither wanted to risk snooping during the daytime. They both wore gloves, and she went as far as to wrap a scarf around her hair. He'd discussed, hypothetically, with Ryan what the downfall of most criminals was. Ryan said it was getting cocky. They doubted that would be their problem.<p>

A sign on the door greeted them, saying the office was closed for business for several weeks while a Senator Walter Robert Brown was out of town. The lock gave way easily with a little pressure from one of her hair pins. He stared at her.

"One day you're going to have to tell me where you learned to do that," he murmured as she pushed the door open.

"Not likely," she through a smile over her shoulder. "Well, I think we're alone."

He closed the door behind him and waited until she drew the curtains before tugging at the light switch. One thing was apparent after they blinked off the shock of the light: they weren't the only ones who'd had the idea to stop by the senator's office while he was out of town. Files were strewn everywhere. The desk drawers had all been opened and rifled through and in one corner of the room, a safe lay with its door open and its contents missing.

"Oh," she said in surprise.

"At least we won't have to be as careful to leave everything as we found it," he always saw the upside in a crime.

"That's true," she let her fingers sink into a gash that tore through the leather of the desk chair, "Someone went to great lengths to find _something_. Look."

He nodded. She sank into the chair and began to look through what was left in the drawers, while he busied himself with the rest of the mess.

"The problem is, we don't know if they found what they were looking for," she said, "Or if they found anything useful."

"By the look of the safe, my guess is that whoever was here before us was interested in financial gain, not information." He sifted through the files on the floor, but left them all over to one side when he was done, "And it looks like these are all legitimate. Have you found anything?"

She was fingering the picture on the desk, a man and a woman with their three children. She turned it upside down suddenly and shook her head, "No. He has personal correspondence here, but none of it is remarkable. There's more though. I'll keep looking."

Castle gave up on the mess of the floor and turned his attentions to the bookshelves and the safe. The books were mostly legal texts and legislative acts, typed and bound and covered in dust. He wondered if being a senator actually entailed reading them all. Flipping through one was more than enough to prove that they were dreadfully boring. He continued along the wall, but none of the books had been disturbed in what seemed like a long time. He was careful not to leave finger marks in the dust. The safe was, as it had appeared on first inspection from across the room, empty. A small box that looked as though it had contained money had been upturned, and the senator's cheque book was on the floor. If anything else of value had been stored in the hole in the wall, it was long gone and he couldn't speculate on what senators might keep in their safes. He rested his hands at the base and felt along the edges of the metal for any hidden compartments. Tapping lightly, he finally came across a section at the back that sounded different from the rest. The previous thieves must have been in a hurry if they had missed it.

"Ah ha," he carefully eased out the false panel and pulled the small notebook he found out carefully.

She was looking over the bookcase in the opposite corner of the room. He looked over and saw her intently studying the titles, the position of the light casting a shadow across her face. She didn't look up. "What did you find?"

"Not sure yet," he turned back to the book and opened it. The pages turned of their own accord, finally settling in the middle. He ran his finger down the columns of information – names, dates and numbers. It was a record of transactions. The names included some of the most notorious rum runners and still operators in the city. He was just about to tell her they'd found some proof of the senator's criminal ties when he saw it. It was the last entry on the page, _Will Sorenson, 18th March, 150_. He stared for several seconds before he heard her moving across the room.

She inspected the front of the safe visually and with one finger, tracing the hole in the metal lightly to avoid catching her glove on the sharp edge. "Not an amateur box job," she remarked.

"Yeah, they didn't use nitro-glycerine, which probably means they didn't want to damage what was inside."

"Speaking of, did you find anything?"

He had already snapped the book shut and tucked it into his coat. She peered over his shoulder into the empty safe.

He looked down at her, saw the question in her eyes and made a snap decision. "No," he responded, hastily, "There's a false panel in the back but whoever took the rest of its contents must have already found it."

She sighed in defeat. "Well I guess this was a waste of time."

"And your lock-picking skills," he agreed. "I suppose we should get out of here."

"Should we tell Ryan the place has been tossed?"

"No need to let anyone know we were here," he held the door for her. "Besides, something tells me that if Senator Brown is mixed up with McAllister and Co. he's not going to want the police snooping about in his business."

"If the senator is mixed up with McAllister and Co., what makes you think he doesn't own a few cops?" she countered, pulling her gloves off and replacing them with a more fashionable pair as they walked out a side door into the alley behind the building. It was a humid night, and the smell of garbage greeted them. She wrinkled her nose.

"True. You know, I think we should go back to where this all started," he subconsciously let his fingers rest against the notebook in his front pocket. If investigating the senator's connection to the case was going to lead to uncovering Will Sorenson's involvement, Castle didn't want to be blindsided by what they were going to find. That meant he had to redirect their investigation until he had time to get Ryan to look into the matter. Besides, going back to her mother's murder and reconsidering it in light of all they had learned could prove useful.

"You mean my mother's case," she half-stated, half-queried.

He nodded, "I do."

There was a short pause that felt longer to him than it really was before she nodded herself. "We'll start in the morning.

* * *

><p>The next morning, in Castle's office, they pored over the chalkboards, staring at the information they had collected. It was slow work, and it was well past midday before they made any real progress.<p>

"It just doesn't make any sense," she mused, tapping the autopsy photographs that were linked to her mother's by two white chalk lines labelled _National Woman's Party_. "Killing my mother and Mister Murray, I understand. It makes sense. They were onto the cover up of Armond's murder. But these other women… how were they involved?"

"You've got me there. By all accounts they don't know each other, though they did work at the offices at the same time. Of course, the party is only the most obvious connection. There might yet be something we've missed."

"We need to talk to someone who was active in the party back then, who would know how Dianna and Jennifer were contributing."

"Why do I get the feeling you know exactly who to ask?"

She grinned at him over her left shoulder, "I do. She's retired, mind, and I don't know how thrilled she'll be at seeing us. But she was heavily involved in the party and she was from New York so it's just a guess, but she may have known our victims. I know she knew my mother."

"Oh?"

"They were arrested together once, while I was still at school. Mother spoke very highly of her. But she retired from the movement and political life after women won the vote. The last I heard was that she had moved back to Brooklyn to care for her niece who was newly an orphan."

"And you know where to find her?"

"I have a hunch."

"Then lead the way."

It was an unusually cool day for August, and the wind was cold against her back as they descended from the station to the street. The church was a short walk from the subway but the sun had started to sink into the skyline when they climbed the stairs, the spires casting long shadows down onto the street. It was a Catholic church, but it smelled familiar – the polished wood of the pews, wax from burning candles and a faint hint of frankincense. Castle was unusually silent behind her. The afternoon sunlight was catching the stained glass windows that lined the place of worship's western aspect, sending brilliant coloured long shadows down the length of the building. She held a hand up to her eyes to block out the dazzling effect it created. She was focussed, instead, on the few inhabitants saying afternoon prayers.

One such devout Christian was who she was looking for: a short, modestly dressed woman with her hair tied in a severe bun beneath her hat. Her hands were clasped and her head was bowed in prayer. Kate pointed her out to Castle with a single, white-gloved finger. Miss Laura Burns made the sign of the cross before she stood, and then strode with purpose towards where they lingered at the entrance. She didn't see them though, and Kate had to hurry after to her to match her pace.

"Miss Burns?" she called, following the woman out onto the front steps of the church. "Miss Burns?"

Laura Burns turned back, looking sour, but her face rearranged itself into somewhere between shock and horror when she saw who was calling to her. "Johanna?" she asked once, blinking off her surprise.

"No, I'm sorry to startle you," Kate hopped down the few stairs that separated them, leaving Castle hovering between the first and second steps behind her. "My name is Katherine Sorenson. I'm Johanna Beckett's daughter."

"Of course," the older woman shook her head and broke into a kind of smile. She had a stern face though, and you had to know where to look to see mirth in her features. "I had forgotten that Johanna had a daughter. You were very keen to get involved with the party if I recall, but your mother didn't want you protesting with us until you were older."

"And then my husband wasn't particularly pleased by the idea either," she made a face, "Not that it stopped me. Luckily, there wasn't a lot of picketing to be done after we were married."

Laura Burns looked displeased by her words. "Is this him up there? I'll have a word with him about men interfering where they're not wanted."

Kate laughed, "No. This is Richard Castle. Castle," she beckoned with one hand, "Come here." Behind the same hand she added, "He's quite obedient as you can see."

Castle shook hands with their source and flashed her his most charming smile. He had always felt incredibly nervous around the more militant of the suffragettes. He had the sense they didn't like him simply for being male, which wasn't entirely fair. There were few less loyal to the cause, at least in mind, than he was. He'd always thought very highly of women and he'd met some mighty interesting ones behind stage doors and under dressing tables. It was just that the women's rights movement attracted incredibly serious types and he was a grown man who loved to play.

Laura Burns appraised him for a second and let her lips turn upwards at the corners for a brief, merciful second. He took it for approval.

"Now if I remember rightly Johanna's family was Protestant," Laura released Castle's hand. "So what brings you to a Catholic church?"

"Actually," Kate took the opening, "I was hoping I could ask you some questions about my mother's time in the Party."

"I don't much like to talk about that these days," Laura Burns half-sighed, "But you have a purpose about you, which makes me think you wouldn't give up even if I asked politely."

"I'm sorry to trouble you," Kate did look contrite, "We're investigating my mother's death and it's come to our attention that two other women from the Party were killed around the same time, along with a lawyer my mother was friends with. We think the deaths are connected to another case, and we were wondering if you know how either of these women might have been connected to it."

"I knew Johanna had her causes," Miss Burns said, "Some of them the women took interest in, but most of us were passionate about one thing and one thing only back then, and that was getting the vote. Johanna was different though; she wasn't so single minded, just as passionate, but she had a mind for justice, for fairness. Tell me the names of the other two women who were killed."

"Diana Cavanaugh and Jennifer Stewart were the other two women ma'am," Castle spoke, "We don't think they were overly familiar with Johanna Beckett, but maybe they came by important information by some other means."

"Well Jennifer was a plucky young thing, emphasis on young. She was barely out of secondary school but wanted to be involved. She used to answer the phones at the office in New York, gathered our correspondence and re-directed what was important to the headquarters in Washington DC. I remember her quite well as a matter of fact. She wrote to me in prison. I don't know how she'd be involved in some murder case though. "

Castle's mind was turning over. Kate saw it in his expression. "What are you thinking?" she asked him.

"Well," he turned to Miss Burns, "You say Jennifer Stewart worked in the offices, redirecting correspondence? That would mean she opened all the letters received there."

"It often did yes, particularly if they were addressed to members that were in prison. Your mother was jailed around the same time as I was, for a much shorter amount of time. Scott Murray was her lawyer. He sweet-talked the judge into being lenient. And you are correct Mister Castle; any mail Johanna received at the office would have been re-directed to her in prison or to the family home by Miss Stewart during her stay in Occoquan Workhouse."

"So she might have read my mother's mail?" Kate mused out loud.

"Yes, and that might have meant she knew things. We can confirm by looking at the addresses on the letters from Scott Murray."

"What about Diana Cavanaugh?" Kate pressed Miss Burns.

"I confess, I don't remember the name, but I didn't know all the girls. It's possible she worked in the office as well."

"We still have some records from our previous work," Castle reminded her, "We can go over them again and see what we find."

Kate nodded. Turning to Miss Burns she offered her hand to the woman, smiling warmly, "Thank you so much for all of your help. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"No, no dear. It was an awful thing that happened to your mother. She was a good friend to me. I hope what I've told you helps. If you need anything else, I can be reached at this number." She relayed a telephone number which Castle hastily scrawled on the notepad he carried with him at all times. It was probably full of ideas for his next public foray into making her look ridiculous. The manuscript of the first novel had gone to the publisher, despite her renewed protests, and he'd allowed her to read it after a lot of legal fuss. She had begrudgingly enjoyed it, but she still wasn't too pleased to be the inspiration. Her fictional counterpart had looser lips, amongst other things.

Laura Burns shook her hand firmly, and then Castle's before continuing on her way.

Her companion was lost in thought. She watched him mull over their new leads for a second before letting her hand rest on her hip, staring at him questioningly.

When he noticed, it did prompt an explanation on his part. "I was just running over the chalkboards in my mind, trying to see if I could remember anything about Diana Cavanaugh that might link her to the murders, and I think I know how they were both involved. Jennifer Stewart forwarded on correspondence detailing the conspiracy in place to cover up Bob Armond's murder. Someone must have found the correspondence, or at least, known that your mother and Mister Murray were sharing information via the post. Anyone who knew anything about how the party was operating at the time would know that Jennifer opened the mail, and so they'd know that she knew whatever Scott Murray and Johanna Beckett knew. Diana Cavanaugh on the other hand worked as a clerk at the courthouse where Joe Pulgatti's trial was held. I'd be willing to bet that Scott Murray filed an appeal with the court, or tried to, before he died. The senator probably sent a crew to break into the courthouse and steal the file before it was seen by a judge and Diana Cavanaugh was killed so that the appeal never made it to court."

"That's a detailed theory," she took it all in, "And it makes sense. The only problem is that we have absolutely no proof whatsoever."

"There'll be proof," he asserted confidently, "We just have to find it."

* * *

><p>Before any further progress could be made on the case, Castle's novel was to be published. He'd invited her to the unofficial launch party he was throwing. It was a private affair and she felt silly intruding, but Ryan and Esposito and even Lanie had accepted their invitations, and so, she took pause at the street entrance to the speakeasy they frequented. She let her hand rest against the railing as she descended the rickety staircase into Javier's, expecting the usual smoky atmosphere and worn tablecloths thrown across hastily arranged tables. Instead, she was surprised to realise that the basement bar actually did have adequate lighting. It revealed a slightly worn, but still unexpectedly fashionable interior. The rich mahogany wood of the bar had been polished and the tables were sporting crisp linen and crystal glassware. The crowd was smaller than she expected, but still full of those she didn't recognise. Self-consciously, she brought a hand to her head, checking that her hair was still in place, and scanned the crowd. Lanie was in the back corner giggling with Esposito and Detective Ryan. Castle's mother was entertaining a few of Esposito's staff with theatrical gestures. Castle himself was doing his best to play a good host, sparing a word for each cluster of guests. He was deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman she didn't recognise when she entered.<p>

He looked up almost instinctively and saw her framed by the doorway, wearing a deep red dress that clung to her hips like he found himself wanting to when he saw her in it.

She smiled in greeting.

He excused himself from his conversation and crossed the room to meet her.

"You came," he sounded pleasantly surprised.

"You assured me I would be the guest of honour," she let him help as she shrugged off her coat. He laid it carefully on the pile behind the bar.

"And you are," he offered her an arm, "Come on, I'll introduce you around. I'm sure I know some people you might like."

When he had introduced her around and left her with Javier and Lanie, he saw Ryan waving him to a darker corner of the room. He made his apologies, picked up two whiskies off a passing tray and joined the policeman.

"What have you found?" he asked, correctly assuming the cop wanted to talk about Will Sorenson.

"Well, I couldn't go through official police channels without arousing suspicion, and I'm sure you know that the dragon you're chasing has bite, though off the record, he's been spotted a few times down in Chinatown with some people who might interest you," he pulled a series of police sketches from his coat. The pictures showed clear resemblance to Raglan, McAllister and their mysterious assassin. "Hal Lockwood," Castle pointed to the face of the man who had shot at them down at Coney Island. "This is the man who shot at us."

"A few of my cousins, the black sheep of the family, who run with a group of Irish bootleggers down in the Bowery told me Will Sorenson's been on the senator's books for years. They say he comes round there a bit, never busts them up."

"So maybe this is just about protecting business interests," Castle quickly pocketed the sketches, "I mean, he works for the Bureau of Internal Revenue, the senator gets a lot of his money from less than savoury means, most of which involve liquor… maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Thought writers didn't believe in coincidences Ricky," Ryan nudged him, following Castle's gaze across the room to where Kate Sorenson was being charmed by his mother. "I know what you're thinking, and if I thought there was even a chance we were wrong about this, I'd tell you not to tell her, but you know how she is. She'd be mad as hell if she thought we were keeping her out of the loop to protect her feelings. And besides, my cousins reckon Sorenson's been on the pay roll since before prohibition."

"How exactly does one bring up that topic of conversation?" Castle muttered, "Hope you're having a good time at my party, by the way, your husband is somehow mixed up in this mess we've been investigating?"

Ryan clapped him on the shoulder. "You're the one with the way with words Ricky. Can't say I'm not glad it's you not me though."

"Thanks Ryan."

"Not a worry. If I hear anything else, I'll let you know. Now, I have to get over there and ask Jenny to dance before someone else does."

"Godspeed," Castle nodded and inspected his whiskey for a moment. He was distracted by someone leaning their weight against his shoulder, "Hey there stranger."

He smiled instinctively and looked down at her carefully made-up face. "You're waterproof you know," he told her.

"Maybe," she turned away, "It's the fashion."

"I didn't mean anything by it. You look lovely as ever."

"Then why haven't you been bugging me to dance with you?" she half-teased, but he sensed a genuine desire for his answer behind her tone.

"I'd have thought your card was full."

She pursed her lips pleasantly and gave him a small laugh. "I'd make room."

"Really?" he regarded her for any hint that she was playing him. "Normally it takes far more cajoling to get you out onto the dance floor."

She nodded as she tipped her champagne glass to her lips. "Mmhmm, really. Perhaps I'm just feeling agreeable tonight."

"Perhaps you've had too much of that champagne."

"I'd forgotten what the real stuff tasted like," she confessed, twisting the stem of the glass between her fingers. "It's quite good."

"Celebrations don't feel the same without it."

"So, shall we?" she offered him her hand, hopefully.

He hesitated. "Are you sure? Normally, you'd be lecturing me about inspiring gossip."

"There's no reason we can't dance Castle," she said, pulling him out onto the small space cleared of tables.

"No," he was in accord; "I suppose you're right."

She hooked one arm over his shoulder and brought her head down under his chin, stopping just short of resting it against his chest; her other hand clutched his. Their feet were barely moving. It was more of a shuffle than a dance. It was mesmerising. Everything faded into the background, except for the soft lull of the piano, the weight of his hand at her waist and their gentle, rhythmic swaying. She let her eyes slip closed.

When the song ended, she pulled back a little but didn't release his hands. Opening her eyes, she found him staring at her.

"What?" she let her teeth sink into her lip, self-conscious.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly.

"You're staring," she nudged one of his feet with the tip of her shoe, "And we're not dancing anymore."

"No," he agreed. He became acutely aware of her proximity, how easy it would be to kiss her. It was a matter of inches. He remembered the last time, the softness of her mouth and the deftness of her tongue and the perfect balance between kissing and being kissed she had managed that day in his study. He felt the memory as an ache in his chest.

She didn't make any attempt to disentangle herself before the music started up again, more lively this time. She also didn't seem to mind that he ignored it and just stood, watching her.

"What were you and Detective Ryan talking about like partners in crime before?" she smiled, fondly.

That brought his thoughts of a pleasant seduction to an abrupt halt. Instead, he was faced with the very real idea that telling her of her husband's involvement in the conspiracy they were slowly uncovering might mean she had no reason to protest if he did kiss her. More likely, it would spark a curious mix of hurt and anger and she would lash out at whomever was closest; he had been observing her closely since the moment they'd met and he hadn't learned nothing. Still, he knew he should tell her, knew that if she ever found out he was keeping it from her she would find it hard to forgive him or trust him.

The moment wasn't right, or it was too right and he didn't want to spoil it.

He gave her a wide smile, "Nothing."

Then he squeezed her fingers and dropped her hand, "Excuse me, I'm going to go check on the bar."

She blinked after him when he walked away, affronted. She had thought she was a part of something happening between them and felt immediately foolish. Katherine Beckett Sorenson didn't like feeling a fool; she buried the feeling and focussed on being properly irritated with him instead, allowing herself to confide her frustrations in another glass of champagne

* * *

><p>Confirming his theory about Jennifer Stewart's involvement turned out to be quite simple in the end. While pouring over the letters between Johanna Beckett and Scott Murray, she had noticed that the addresses on Mister Murray's letters to her mother were different to the addresses that adorned the outside of the envelopes they were in, and the files they had taken from the National Woman's Party confirmed that it was Jennifer Stewart's handwriting. Castle, emboldened by this successful round of hypothesising, tried his hand at the rest of the loose ends in their investigation. His theories grew wilder by the hour. She had attempted to divert his attention to more practical matters, but his imagination would not be denied. This meant that the afternoon's work spilled into the evening, which was fine, as Will was away in Atlantic City again, but she was beginning to feel frustrated.<p>

She let her hand rest against the cool surface of the chalkboard, careful not to smudge their intermingling scripts, and tapped her fingers in irritation.

He looked over in the middle of a sentence, contrite. "I'm sorry, I know you think I'm wasting our time."

"That's because you are," she declared pettily.

"Perhaps I am," he admitted. "I think the connection between the women is obvious now, though we have no proof. I'm at a loss as to how we could find any proof of Diana Cavanaugh's involvement but we almost don't need any. Anyone watching would put the circumstantial evidence together just like we have: she was in the same political party as your mother and Jennifer Stewart and she worked at the courthouse where Scott Murray was trying to file an appeal to have Joe Pulgatti's conviction overturned. These men don't seem to require a lot of hard evidence to order a killing."

"That's true," she picked up a piece of chalk and underlined Senator Brown's name, "I want to know how the senator is involved in all of this. He knew McAllister, and probably Raglan. The question is who is pulling the strings? Was he their boss, or just an associate? And are the players being eliminated to prevent the conspiracy from leaking or as revenge?"

"Maybe we should focus our attentions on the murders themselves," he tried to divert her attention from the senator yet again. He was striving (and it was painstaking, fighting his nature so completely) to keep his attempts subtle, but he knew it wouldn't be long now before she figured him out. In fact, he was surprised she had remained in the dark so long.

"But we don't know anything about Senator Brown," she protested, "He's an obvious lead that we haven't followed. We've been over the murders again and again."

"And we find something new every time," he pointed out, enthusiastically. "More to the point, you know I want to know how he's involved as much as you do, but a man like that? With his connections? It's no accident that all these people are dead. Besides, I doubt there's any tangible trail."

"So you think he's behind all of it? And you're suggesting we let him get away with it?" her eyes flashed furious. He wasn't doing a good job of talking her down this time.

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all," he stood and backed towards the door, "Look, I'm going to make tea. I just think that we should start from the crimes and work forwards instead of starting from the senator and working back. I think the trail will be clearer. You saw his office. There was not a thing connecting him to any criminal activity. He's smart, so we'll just have to be smarter."

When he returned she was flipping through the leather book he'd hidden in plain sight.

"What is this?" she said, icy and pointed.

He faltered. "Just… nothing."

"Castle. Don't insult me. We both know I'm not a fool."

"I found it in the safe, when we broke into his office. I'm sure you recognise some of the names."

"I do."

"I think… it's a ledger. It's payments received and owing."

"So all this time, you've been saying we should focus on the murders, when you've had proof the senator was involved in more than a little criminal activity the entire time?"

"There's nothing in that book that directly links him to your mother's murder or any of the other killings," he set down the cups he'd brought from the kitchen and held out his hands for the book, "I promise. I would never hide something important from you."

"Really? So what do you call this?" she waved it in his face. "Is this unimportant? Why? Why would you hide it?"

"I just wanted… more time. I … Ryan is running down some of the names. When he's done, we'll have more information and I wanted to wait until then to show you."

"That's," she closed in on him like a circling shark, "Bull. And you know it."

"What else am I meant to say? I'm sorry. I am. But I didn't think you'd want to believe me if I showed you right away."

"And now? Now what am I meant to believe?" she stalked away from him and began gathering her things, tucking the ledger under her arm. "No, don't answer. I don't want to hear it. We are done Castle."

She picked up the duster and drew it over the chalkboard erratically, leaving half their work behind. Chalk dust settled into her hair and onto her fingers. She turned to him again, "So that's it? You have nothing to say?"

"You told me not to say anything," he exclaimed, "What do you want from me? I already apologised. I told you. I just wanted Ryan to make sure it was true before I told you."

She didn't know what he was talking about, but she was too hurt to ask.

"I can't believe I trusted you," she raised her voice just enough so he knew she meant it, but not enough to wake his family. She pulled open the door to the study and strode into the hallway, slamming the front door as she went, carrying her coat over her arm. Once she was in the street, she paused to put it on and to pull on her gloves. The chalk dust and her tears stung in her eyes. Staring at her feet, she tried to be properly enraged with him again, tried to blink away the evidence that she cared at all, but it was no use. By the end of the block, she was sobbing outright and the streetlights blurred into watery fuzz.

She was grateful for the empty house to return to when she finally managed to sink the key into the lock, grateful that Will wasn't home to ask questions. She stripped off her coat and gloves in the hall, and took the ledger into the bedroom. There, she tucked the leather book beneath the mattress. Stepping back, she let her dress fall to the floor and stared at the circle it made around her feet. She didn't have the energy to pick it up. Kicking it aside, she let herself sink onto the bed, pulling the covers around her. She hugged the pillow against her body and wiped away the last of her tears. It had no right to hurt this much. He was … what? Her partner in the many crimes they had committed in the course of their investigation, crimes which he had never once shied away from or spared an expense to cover up? Her friend? Someone who had begged, borrowed and stolen police files as an excuse to be a part of her life? Someone who, despite her protests and her determination to keep him at a distance, had become her confidante, her equal, someone she had counted on as constant? All of the above, she realised with a miserable sigh, and more, more than she would willingly admit to anyone. She had known almost from the start that she was playing a dangerous game, and it had only become more dangerous when his teasing, his flirting with her, had gained a serious edge. And then hers had too. And when he had kissed her, God, she felt it in her toes. It came to mind unbidden sometimes.

She had known she wanted him in a way she shouldn't for quite a long time. It was the impetus behind her self-imposed exile, it was the reason she made excuses for him to dance with her longer than was necessary at Javier's, it was the tug she felt at parts of herself she had never shared when they were alone. She had not once thought it much more than an intellectual and physical infatuation. But the sting of his secrecy, the way it had hurt to leave, made her realise something bigger. She was probably in love with him, in a way she had never loved Will, or anyone else. That was bad. She was married, and she had always prided herself on being a one-and-done kind of girl. Morality aside, he was… he was Castle. She shouldn't love him. Loving him would be incredibly foolish. She had always thought it. But there it was, plain as anything: love and her heart aching more than she had ever thought possible.

She had created an almighty mess, she decided, and this was the best possible outcome, wretched though it felt. She clutched at the pillow and, despairingly, waited for sleep. Tomorrow, she thought, she would hate him again, and tomorrow, she would stubbornly refuse the hurt that overtook her. Tonight though, she was too exhausted to fight it.

* * *

><p>As the lethargy of August slowly gave way to the chill of September, Kate Sorenson spent most of her days in the public library, searching through newspaper articles for any mention of Senator Brown. She learned that he had been elected to office in 1913, after fighting rumours of corruption circulated by the papers. Many claims were made by respectable publications, but all came into doubt with the very public arrest and trial of Joe Pulgatti. After Pulgatti was shipped up the river, all allegations against the senator went with him – the public had a way of mistrusting journalists, especially when they were proven to have made a mistake – and the senator had since been a media darling. He had posed at orphanages and schools, with war heroes and suffragettes, and was the subject of any number of puff pieces. It enraged her quite thoroughly. After reading one such article about his campaign for party leadership going into the 1920 federal election, she clenched her hand into a fist and brought it down against the heavy mahogany table. It echoed throughout the library which was, for the most part, deserted. A librarian shelving books and a college student studying at a carell opposite her glared; she tried to look apologetic as she shoved the articles back where she had found them, a little more forcefully than was necessary.<p>

Her biographical research was, objectively, of little use to the investigation, if their goal was to bring the senator to justice. It did help her to understand his motives. The man had used criminal ventures as stepping stones to legislative power. That came with certain inherent problems. After pinning the murder of Robert Armond on Joe Pulgatti, he had enjoyed several successful years in office but his future again came into jeopardy when her mother had started asking questions. She knew her mother: no financial incentive would appease her; her conscience would have demanded that an innocent man not be left in prison. And so, he'd had her murdered. When that piqued Scott Murray's interest, he too had to be disposed of along with anyone else who might be a weak link in the chain. It was all a cover-up, all an attempt to preserve one man's career, his power. She felt sick.

She couldn't stand to look at any more facts. The senator had a wife and two children. They lived on the Upper East Side. He was widely regarded as holding the safest senate seat in the country. She felt the pressure building behind her temples as she recalled each piece of information.

She left the library earlier than she usually would, before midday, and was scrubbing the ink from the newsprint off her hands when Lanie came by with a package. She opened the door for her friend and waited until she was inside the apartment before asking where she'd come from.

"Javier's," the other woman said, tentatively, "But before you throw it in the trash, I have it on good authority that you want to open that."

She stared at the familiar handwriting that addressed it to her and gave one proud and stubborn shake of her head. "I don't Lanie, I swear I don't. He was hiding things from me, digging around behind my back. I don't trust him and I don't ever want his help again."

"Would it help if I told you it's not just from him? Detective Ryan put a few things in there himself, and I'm sure you wouldn't want him to get in trouble because you tossed out the police files he stole for you in a fit of misplaced anger."

"Fine," she looked mightily displeased, but slumped beside Lanie on the sofa and opened it slowly. She pulled a collection of documents and sketches and a single newspaper clipping from the envelope.

"Did they tell you what was in it?" she asked as she began to sort the new information into piles on her skirt.

Lanie shook her head, "Just that it was important. What is it?" she had noticed the change in Kate's expression.

"Lanie," she breathed. "This is all concerning Will."

"What do you mean honey?"

"I mean that … Castle says in his letter that he's terribly sorry, but that he had to be sure before he showed me," she was already up and walking into the other room. Lanie followed, trying to follow her mumbling but failing dismally.

"The ledger," she cried, disturbing the pile of papers on the desk by the window, "Where is it?"

Finally, her hand emerged victorious, clutching a small leather-bound notebook. She flipped through, eyes searching through all the names. There, on January 18th, 1925 was a payment to Will Sorenson for one hundred and fifty dollars. She turned the pages forward a month. February and March contained identical entries, as did every month after. "Lanie the reason he was hiding this is because he saw Will's name in this book."

"And what is that book exactly?"

"It's… it's a ledger, for the senator's less savoury business transactions. Castle found it when we went to his office last month. I … he hid it from me, and when I found it I was just so angry."

"And now it turns out maybe he was hiding it from you for a reason?" Lanie peered over her shoulder and nudged her side gently. "Girl, you should apologise."

"Like hell I will," she brought her hand to her mouth at the severity of her language. "He should have told me right away."

"He wanted time," Lanie patted her arm, "I understand. I wouldn't like to go around accusing your husband of being a criminal without proof either. You have quite the temper you know," she smiled wryly, "What was in the package?"

"Some police reports. They say more than a few criminals saw Will down at a place I know of, the Golden Dragon in Chinatown. He was with some of the men we suspect are the senator's people. Dick Coonan associated with them too. They're an Irish outfit that participate in the usual organised crimes. One of them was filed by Ryan. I… I don't know what to think."

Lanie clucked her tongue astutely. "Mores the point, I think you do know what to think, you're just not sure what to do about it."

"Well what would you do?"

Lanie took her hand, "Honey, I don't have the faintest idea. But I don't think you'll be able to live with it if you never ask him the truth."

"What if I do? And what if it is true?"

They had known each other for the longest time. In fact, for as long as both girls could remember, the other had been there. They'd pieced together the story as adults: Lanie had never had a father, her mother had found herself in a spot of trouble and a newly pregnant Johanna Beckett had learned enough about how it had happened to talk her husband into allowing their maid to become a full-time live-in servant and nanny to the child they were expecting. In all their lives, Lanie had never seen Katherine Beckett show fear, not when she'd been sent away to school after turning ten, not when Will Sorenson had been missing in action for two weeks after a nasty skirmish with the Germans, not when her mother had been brutally murdered. And in that moment, all Lanie saw was fear.

"You know what Mrs Beckett used to say," they didn't often talk of Johanna, but Lanie had grown up in awe of her, captivated by her teachings, and probably remembered them better than her own daughter. "She used to say that what we have to stand, the Lord gives us the strength to stand."

Kate clutched at her hand, and nodded once.

"And you know, whatever you need, I'm here for you. And your father loves you. And I'd hazard a guess Mister Castle would do unspeakable things for you if you asked. Javier and Ryan, they'd help him. We all love you."

"Thank you," she pulled her hand free and held the small book to her chest. "I know that I'm lucky to have all of you."

"You tell me how it turns out," Lanie said authoritatively, "I have to go see how your father's doing."

"Is he better Lanie?"

"That last talking to you gave him seems to have done the trick, or maybe it was the doctor's warnings. He hasn't touched a drink since."

Temporarily cheered by that news, she spent the afternoon re-reading all that Castle had sent her. She even started to write him a thank you note, but stopped after the first, poorly composed sentence. How could she thank him in a note? None of the words really seemed enough.

Will came home late that night. She'd alternated between pacing and needless tidying to occupy herself while she waited.

She had schooled herself all afternoon, planning how to begin. In the end it all tumbled out. She didn't even respond to his hello before she was in the middle of it.

"Do you know a Senator William Brown?" she asked.

"Who? What are you talking about darling?"

"_Will_. Do you know him?"

"Yes," her husband stepped past her into the living room where all the papers still lay on the coffee table. He looked over them for several minutes without speaking. She stood in the archway to the room, hands pressed to the wood, her body shaking. She bit her tongue to save herself from saying something she might regret. She was thinking of how to press him further when he looked up at her, realising the sum of the papers in front of him. "What is all this?"

"Evidence," she said. He was angry, she could see it. That sparked a similar feeling in her. It was just like him, to turn things around on her when she had every right to be mad at him. "I've been looking into my mother's murder since you've been away so much."

"What? Katie. We talked about this," he took a step towards her. She held her ground admirably, eyes daring him to come any closer.

"No," she responded coldly. "We didn't _talk_ about it. You _told _me I wasn't to do it anymore. And years ago, when I was younger and sillier and still nearly sick with grief, I let you."

"So when people have been telling me that you've been running all over town with that writer, I should have believed them?"

"He was helping me Will. We … he had contacts, he made it easier to follow leads."

"And I suppose you know what else they've been saying? That you've been coming from his house at all hours of the night? That he's mixed up with all sorts of people?"

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"I suppose he was the one who told you all this," he gestured to the letter. "That the senator was involved in your mother's murder and that I somehow had something to do with it."

"He didn't have to tell me anything," she was livid, how dare he insinuate that she couldn't make up her own mind about the thing? "We found a ledger in the senator's office, and we found _that_ through an address left on a dead man, a man who was killed by someone who took a few poorly aimed shots at _me_, mind. He tried to kill me Will. And you took his money," she was disgusted, and nearly spat it at him.

"Well how do you think I afford all those pretty things you like so much?" he asked her, raising his voice. She had always had a temper, though she was cautious about losing it. The way he said it though – and what he had said – were too much. She picked up the vase on the table closest to her and threw it across the room.

"He had my mother killed," she matched his volume and tone, "And you knew, all this time you knew and you never told me."

"What does it matter? You'll never touch him."

"I'll kill him with my own bare hands if I have to," she vowed.

"Katie, calm down," he took a step toward her with one hand raised and she balled her hands to fists.

"Is that why you married me Will? To keep me from the truth? Did he ask you to do it?"

"Of course not, I love you."

"You've been taking money from a man who tried to have me killed," she answered, "So I find it hard to believe you."

"If you hadn't been poking around in things that don't concern you, none of this would have happened."

"Things that don't concern me?" she nearly launched herself at him like she would have as a child. She'd had a habit of using her fists and pulling hair when things didn't go her way. Her mother had told her very strictly when she was five that it wasn't how young ladies were meant to behave. Well, she had thought at the time, that was all well and good, but she wasn't going to let herself be bullied. Still, she settled for raising her chin defiantly when he stepped closer, threatening.

"Besides, you're one to talk about me not loving you. I did all of this for you, because I knew you'd drive yourself crazy with it if I didn't. I took the money to help us make a home. I did all of this for _you_Katie, and for what? So you could turn your back on all of it and run around with someone else?"

"How _dare_you accuse me of that?" she took the insult to her virtue almost as well as she'd taken the insult to her intelligence, "I know where you've been meeting all your no-good friends. I know the kind of women that hang around there. And I know that you probably know all the establishments with the worst reputations down in Atlantic City. So don't you stand here and lecture me about what it means to be faithful."

"Have you been sleeping with him?"

"What if I have?" she glowered, "What if I told you it was the best thing I could have done for myself? After all, no one could blame me: ever since you came back from Europe with the clap you've hardly touched me. I always thought you felt guilty, but maybe you were just getting it elsewhere."

He struck her once, hard enough to knock her dizzy. Her cheek took the brunt of it though, and the crack of his knuckles told her his hand had suffered more damage than her face.

She took off her wedding rings right then and there, back against the wall and husband looking at her, stunned. He was shaking his right hand.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"So am I," she told him in a measured tone. "I'm going now Will and I'm not coming back. And this isn't about you and whoever else you've been with, or me and whoever else I've been with. This is about the fact that you've known for years who had my mother killed and done nothing about it. You, you always talked so prettily about justice and the law... imagine my surprise when you turned out to be a hypocrite."

"I'm sorry," he said again, with the look of a man who couldn't figure out how he reached his breaking point.

"You're going to want to ice that," she offered her last and disappeared into the bedroom, locking the door behind her while she packed a suitcase blindly.

She was out the front door and half a block into a miserable night before she realised she had no idea where she was going. She touched a hand to her aching face and let her bag drop to her feet in the wet street. It was only then that she thought to cry. It was storming good and proper, and her tears were hot while the rain was cold against her cheeks. She wiped them away after a moment, took a few deep breaths to compose herself and kept walking, her hand fingering the letter from her mother in the pocket of her coat.

_End Part III_


	5. Part IV Fall

Author's Note: So these chapters really are of epic length, but I wrote this for a challenge where you had to post all at once, so for whatever reason I didn't write in a chapter-based style. Since lets me post the parts in their entirety, I thought for the sake of flow it was probably best just to do that. But you might have to take a break whilst reading... eep. Anyway. The line breaks are usually a good time for that. **And fair warning**, this chapter contains a few sex scenes, including one that's a got a lot of _throwdown_ as my girlfriends call it, meaning it's a little rough and ready. (Of course, ymmv here. I'm being a little overly cautious with this warning.) I figured if you made it this far, you deserved a little boning. Anyway. It all wraps up here. Just the epilogue to go.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part IV: Fall.<strong>_

_New York City. October, 1925._

She rapped on his door before dawn. Once, twice, by the third impatient sound he realised he wasn't simply caught up in his latest detailed imagining. He hurried to the door lest it wake his mother or daughter.

"Mrs Sorenson," he said, surprised to see her.

She made a face at the formality, even though she would have been sour with him if he'd ignored it and he'd have endured endless rounds of "what would the neighbours think?" Perhaps she simply thought it was redundant given that she was standing on his porch at four o'clock in the morning looking as wild as the night she came from.

"Let me in," she managed in reply, staring at her shoes. "Please."

He stood to one side and ushered her into the hall. She pulled of her coat, folding it over her arm and turned back to stare at him, questioning his inaction. He appeared frozen in the doorway.

"Could you get my suitcase Rick?" she asked in a small voice, gloved fingers reaching up to wipe away the kohl her tear tracks had left behind.

He complied silently and closed the door, refastening the deadbolt.

She knew his house well from previous visits, or at least, the four front rooms but she ignored the entrance to his study and continued to the staircase. He followed obediently, like a curious pup. "Kate, where are you going?" he asked quietly when she halted suddenly, distracted by one of Alexis' sketches hanging in the hall.

"This is lovely," she breathed, fingertips brushing against the charcoal, "She's very talented."

"Mmm," he nodded, "Kate."

"I left Will," she pulled her wedding rings from her pocket and held them in her palm for him to inspect. "I asked him about the documents we found and he was awfully mad. It's not like him," she held a hand to her face carefully, "But I'll be damned if I was going to sit back and let him beat on me."

"Oh honey," he put his free arm around her shoulders but she shrugged it off.

"That's not why I left," she said evenly. The edge to her tone made him disinclined to even think up his usual smart remarks. "Knowing he's involved, knowing he knew for all these years and kept it from me, I couldn't stay. I could never forgive him for that, I know it; I knew it the moment he told me it was true."

Castle had the sense she wasn't done, so he let her go on while he considered that information.

"I'm sorry for what I said," she apologised as though it was necessary; unlike her to Will, he could forgive her anything.

"I shouldn't have tried to hide it from you," he responded. "I just wanted more time, I wanted to be sure."

"You didn't want me to shoot the messenger," she accused, with the hint of humour it required.

"I didn't want it to be true," conversely, in his tone, humour was absent. "I knew it would hurt you."

She reached down and curled her fingers around the handle of the small travelling bag. Their hands entwined clumsily until she managed to prise it from his grasp. "I'm also sorry to be a bother. I didn't even think... it's so late. I just didn't know where else to go."

"You're always welcome," he told her, "You know that. You can stay as long as you'd like."

"I know you don't have a reputation to speak of but I'd quite like to preserve what's left of mine," she made a valiant attempt at humour. "I'll stay with my father, but for now, I'd just like to rest."

"Of course," her dress was damp under his hand and clung to the small of her back as he guided her down the hall. "This is the spare room," he announced, stopping in front of a dim doorway on his right and groping for the light switch.

"I was rather hoping I might go to bed with you," she said as he found it, light flooding the room beyond just in time to catch his reaction. She stole a glance from beneath her lashes. "You look taken aback."

The light snapped off. "I'm a little surprised, that's all."

"Are you telling me that all this time you've been teasing Mister Castle?" she sounded downright predatory. That was one of the things he'd come to love about her: once she decided to do something, that was that, Lord help anyone or anything that stood in her way.

"It's just," he pulled her into the spare room and closed the door behind her, "I'm just so used to hearing that the bank's closed, especially with you."

She laughed, light and breathy and right in his ear. "Well then. Cash or cheque?"

"Oh definitely cash," he told her, holding her by the elbows and leaning down to claim her mouth. He kissed her by instinct and memory, her mouth soft beneath his. She grew more insistent though, opening her mouth to his and letting her tongue grace his briefly. Her arms folded behind his neck, and she used them as leverage, pressing her hips against him. He let his fingers slip against her dress, and, with the other hand, trace the exposed skin of her shoulder, along her collarbone and along the line of her jaw.

He turned his head to break the kiss, letting his cheek rest against hers, thumb and forefinger still mapping the opposite side of her face. Her breath was heavy and warm against his cheek.

"You ok?" he asked her, lips moving against her skin.

She nodded, still breathless. "Very."

"You're sure this is what you want?"

She pressed her hips against his slowly, hands twisting in his shirt. "Why are you trying to talk me out of it?"

Her tongue tasting the skin exposed by his shirt sent a shudder through him. "Oh I'm not, believe me. But you've had a rough night," he hesitated, uncertain.

"That's exactly why I want to do this."

"Well that's not the right reason," he stilled her hands with his, pressing her palms flat against his chest. "I don't want to be a stopgap, or something else you regret about tonight."

She bit into her lip, torn. "Well well, the writer grows a conscience," she said softly, only half sarcasm.

"You know that's not why," he told her, "Well, it is, partly. But it's selfish too. I don't think I could bear it if you hated me afterward."

"I promise you I could never hate you," she breathed it, clutching his hands and staring at him though he could barely make out the lines of her face in the dark. They were loaded words. The subtext sparked a kind of unrestrainable hope in the centre of his chest. He smiled, in spite of himself.

"I just," she let go of his hands and rested her palms against his shirt, edging her fingers towards his shoulders, "Can't think about it all now. It's such a mess Rick. I have no idea what I should do tomorrow or the day after that, but right now I'd just like to not think about any of it."

She pulled his mouth to hers by the collar of his shirt. "Would you mind distracting me?" she whispered against his cheek when he was properly senseless from the kiss, "I'd be so awfully grateful."

As a seductress, she had either practice or skill – he didn't really like to think about which – but it was her next words that moved him the most, though he would never admit it; she might realise just how much power she had over him, and that would be the end of him. She turned to his other cheek, kissed it said, "I wanted it to be you, to do the distracting, so very much."

"If you want to stop Kate, you'll tell me?" he asked.

With that, her hands left his and fumbled with the buttons of her dress. It fell to the floor with the clatter of beads.

"We've both done this before," she said, with an impish laugh, "And somehow I doubt it'll go any further than I want it to." She demonstrated her point with a light pinch and he jumped in silent pain before giving her a displeased look.

She smiled sweetly and pulled the strap of her slip down her shoulder. The silk fell to the floor. She stepped out of it, moving closer to him. He stepped back, but reached out to touch her. She was cold from the rain that had dried on her skin and his fingers were warm against her exposed body. He traced the curve of her waist lightly, stepping backward to distance his body from hers. She shivered under his touch, anticipation raising her heart to deafening behind her ears. The world and all its ills were quiet for a moment; her mind, still reeling from the night's revelations, found pause. He let his thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, fingers guarding her rib cage. She stood completely still. His thumbs made another pass, higher this time, and they lingered. Her breath hitched.

He stepped closer, leant down and kissed her softly, spinning her around and stepping backwards until her shins hit the edge of the mattress. She sank down onto the bed willingly, and her hands grabbed at his belt. He took them in his and shook his head at her.

"What's wrong?" she asked in a voice smaller than usual.

"Nothing," he promised, sitting beside her and edging her back up the bed with his hands, "Just, not yet."

"Why?" she felt his hands in her hair, unpinning it deftly so her curls fell down her back. He let one hand tangle in them, pulled her mouth to his by her hair. Before he kissed her he answered, "I want to enjoy you for a minute first."

He brought his hands to her breasts again, his palms rolling over her nipples in lazy circles. Her body was tense, but she felt herself relax, wriggling her toes against the blanket when his mouth found her neck. He let his tongue taste the hollow above her clavicle before sliding his left hand down her torso to her hip and replacing it with his mouth against the swell of her breast. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth by her teeth to silence her gasp of surprise.

"It's ok," he murmured against her skin, "You don't have to be quiet. Well. Not too quiet."

She nodded, mutely, in response. He let his fingernails rake over hip lightly and let his tongue tease her nipple. The sensation flooded through her and all the thoughts abruptly halted. This was the relief she had wanted, the inability to do anything but want and feel. His fingers were tracing a path up along the inside of her leg; tentative or teasing, she couldn't tell which. She moved beneath him in one sudden thrust, until they were repositioned more appropriately. He paused, surprised.

"Touch me," she requested softly, leaning back on her elbows to watch him do it.

He complied readily, smearing his fingers against the slick heat between her legs. His exploration was slow and unhurried. He moved up to kiss her, searching her face for clues. He was cataloguing her reactions. One finger curled inside her provoked a soft moan, two, a gasp. His thumb slipping against her clit brought her hips up against his hand and she mewled into his mouth. With his free hand, he traced the side of her face, thumb brushing along her cheekbone, fingers ghosting along her jaw.

She stretched beneath him and he let his mouth slip to her neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh too lightly to be truly painful. That brought words of encouragement. He let his mouth travel along her shoulder, along the curve of her breast to her stomach. His unshaven chin scratched against her skin, but the kisses in its wake were feather light. She writhed underneath him, laughing softly when he found a ticklish spot and bringing her fingers to his head, threading them through his hair with a small sigh.

She groaned in protest when he drew his hand away and half-sat to glare at him.

He laughed at her. "Patience, love." He kissed the inside of her thigh, bare and white against the contrast of her stockings. "But I do appreciate your enthusiasm."

He moved his hands lower, palms slipping against silk as he pressed her knees apart. She eyed him curiously in the dim light of the streetlamp outside the window.

He reached up to clasp one of her hands before busying his mouth between her legs. That earned a startled keen, that she felt pulled from her involuntarily. She clutched at his hand. His tongue lapped against her clit, and when he brought his free hand up and curled two fingers inside her, she felt overwhelmed by pleasure. Her body filled with warmth and she shuddered against his hand, flopping back against the mattress and pulling the pillow over her head to muffle the sound of her cries.

She held it there for a long time after he let his head rest against her thigh and stilled his fingers. He kissed her hip and spoke into her stomach, "Kate?"

"Mmph," she said into the pillow.

He laughed softly, the trembling of his body against hers making her want him all over again.

She pulled the pillow away cautiously.

"What's wrong darling?" he asked, crawling up her body and looking anxious. She shook her head and curled into his side, running her hands along his chest. "That was new."

"Good or bad?"

She laughed. "I think you know the answer to that. And now you're wearing far too much clothing."

She rolled off her stockings while he made quick work of what he was wearing. She slid under the covers and he lay down beside her, running his hands along the curve of her waist, "Better?"

She tried to kiss him in the dark but her lips found his nose instead. She repositioned herself and opened her mouth to his, her hands slipping down his chest to tactilely inspect the results of his efforts. "Much," she leaned over to huff in his ear, her hands closing around his erection. He pressed his body into hers in response, murmuring encouragement between their faces. She was blinking at him from beneath her lashes, suddenly feeling much more in her element.

He grabbed at her wrist to still her hand and pressed his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss, rolling her onto her back. She inhaled sharply at the feel of him inside her and rocked her hips against his slowly. He paused, "Ok?"

She nodded, then thought better of it and added. "You'd better be careful. I don't want to have a baby."

"You're a romantic, you know that?" he kissed her forehead.

"Stop beating your gums and get on with it," she said as he twisted his hands through hers on the pillow.

He moved slowly at first, but the realisation of a long held desire proved too much for his self-control. He had loved her for longer than he really remembered, but never so much as that moment. It was the way she moved with him, the tiny hitches in her breathing as it grew faster, the way she pulled one of her hands free of his and wedged it between them, bringing herself to orgasm with her eyes pressed closed and her teeth biting at her lip. She clenched around him, and groaned into his mouth and his thrusts grew more erratic. Finally, his body tensed and he thrust higher, against her stomach, coming in a heady rush. She brought her hands to his head and stroked the back of his neck gently, hugging his curled body to her chest. When his breathing slowed, she released him and rolled onto her stomach, trailing the tell-tale signs of sex over the sheets.

He curled around her and let his fingers rest against her hip, tracing patterns absently.

"Do you think less of me?" she asked quietly, her face angled away from his as they shared the pillow.

"Too soon to tell, but I suspect I think a lot more of you honey. There's certainly more to think about."

"I'd better not read about this in that book of yours Ricky," she covered her hand with his, stilling his ministrations by lacing their fingers together and holding their hands between her breasts.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he kissed the back of her neck, letting his teeth scrape at the beginning of her shoulder.

"You should go," she murmured quietly, showing no intention of actually letting him. "This might be hard to explain to your daughter."

"Or my mother," he buried his face in her hair, "Then again, she's done much worse. But you're right; I am still trying to pretend I'm a saint, at least in front of Alexis."

"To what degree of success?" he could practically hear the height her eyebrows rose in her voice.

"Moderate," he answered, distractedly. "You smell like cherries."

She shifted in his arms until she faced him. They both took pause to look at each other for a long moment as the pale light of dawn slipped under the drapes. The stillness was disturbed only by a few birds ushering in the new day with song. Something had shifted; it made him nervous and comfortable at the same time, and for one of the few times in his life he found himself with nothing to say. He traced the curve of her cheek with the back of his fingers, thinking that perhaps some things didn't need words.

Kate's eyes began to feel heavy. She yawned and let them slip closed, leaning into his hand. "Stay with me until I fall asleep?" she asked, stretching her legs out beneath the covers.

"Always," he dropped a kiss to her forehead and let her curl into his shoulder.

* * *

><p>The slow drumming of rain on the roof of the brownstone pulled her from sleep, but barely. She burrowed instinctively into the warmth of the unfamiliar sheets and stretched her limbs, catlike. Hugging the pillow close to her body, she sighed when the pleasant ignorance of sleep was replaced by the physical reminders of the previous night. Her tongue found the inside of her cheek gingerly, and she curled her toes against the linen at the more pleasant ache between her legs. Deciding the consequences of that particular action could wait until after coffee, she sat and drew the sheets up under her shoulders. Rummaging in her hastily packed things, she found a nightgown and a robe. Pulling them on, she extracted herself from the covers and stood in front of the mirror on the nightstand for longer than she would willingly admit trying to tame her curls into something approaching presentable. She needed to bathe, and dress properly. She resolved to go in search of the bathroom, silently praying she might avoid Castle, at least until she was properly put together. She had the nagging suspicion that he would have a lot to say to her, and it was hard to concentrate when you felt underdressed.<p>

Martha was sitting in the hall when she poked her head through the door, cautiously.

"Good morning dear," Castle's mother smiled, "Richard said to let you sleep, but since you're awake let me show you the bathroom."

"Yes," Kate smiled gratefully, "Thank you, Mrs Rogers."

"Darling we've talked about this before."

"Martha," she corrected herself slowly.

"And it never was missus anyone," Martha finished for her with a grand sweep of her hand. Privately, Kate thought that if someone told her Martha Rogers was the original flapper, she'd believe them, though many of the imitations lacked the class and flair of the original.

The older woman took her by the arm and led her across the hall. "Here you go, I had the housekeeper leave out extra linen," The older woman's fingers found her chin and angled her face to inspect the damage, "Honey he did a number on you."

Kate squirmed slightly, feeling uncomfortable. "Nothing permanent," she lifted her nose without realising.

"Definitely not," Martha patted her arm, "But I've picked up some tricks in the theatre over the years which will cover it right up, just the same. I'll bring my things down after you're done here."

"Martha I don't want to be any trouble," she protested.

"Nonsense, it's no trouble. Now if you need anything, holler."

She nodded her reluctant consent as she disappeared into the bathroom. She'd come to be quite fond of Martha; she was intimidating at first with the sheer force of her personality and passion for life, but once you were acclimated to that, the affection for her family and their friends was the more obvious trait. There weren't many people whose help Katherine Beckett would willingly accept, but the actress played the perfect mix of mother and friend.

The water was pleasantly scalding beneath her fingers as she filled the tub. She pulled the tangled mess that was her hair, rain-soaked and pillow-dried, off her face and pinned it to her head. Her robe was hung over the peg on the back of the door and she slipped, feet first, into the warmth of the water. The soap made her skin smell of him and when she was clean, she lay back against the rim of the tub and let her eyes close. She nearly fell asleep until Martha knocked on the door to check on her.

After she had dressed, they spent the next twenty minutes taming her appearance. The actress worked miracles with a series of compacts. Kate watched on in the mirror as the blue stain that spread across the right side of her face disappeared. She finished up looking a little more made-up than usual, but the blow was hidden, for the sake of her pride and prying eyes. Martha also ran a comb and some kind of lotion through her hair, pinning sections back gradually and finally, weaving it into a chignon at the base of her head. By the time she was finished, Kate felt almost presentable. The actress ushered her downstairs and into the kitchen. They were making coffee when her son entered.

"Good morning," he called to announce his presence.

"Castle," Kate jumped, startled. "Your mother said you were working."

"I'm a writer," he smiled, "I work in the front room."

Martha saw she had been forgotten, and, with an unnoticed nod in their direction left the room.

"Ah," Kate nodded once in understanding. Her heart had picked up speed in her chest at the surprise of his intrusion coupled with the fact that she had no idea what to say to him though she knew they'd have to talk. She turned back to the welcome distraction that Martha provided, but was surprised to find her absent. She blinked once then took a deep breath to steady herself. When she faced him again, she was smiling and gesturing with the pot, "Coffee?"

"Mmm, please."

She fixed two cups in a stretched silence that even he couldn't fill with words. She stole a quick glance in his direction, and found that he was staring at her. He held her gaze expectantly, and she felt her cheeks grow hot beneath all the powder hiding her embarrassment. What did people say in such instances? The weight of the previous night hung over her. It pressed the words out hurriedly and with slightly less precision than usual, "If you're working today," she began, "We can take a break from working on the case. I'll take my things over to my father's and get settled."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like," he told her over the rim of his cup.

"Thank you Castle, but I couldn't."

"I just thought…"

Her eyebrows shot up.

"No, I don't mean to be forward," his brow knitted itself into a state. "I thought your plans might have changed. You're welcome to change them whenever you'd like; my offer is standing."

She suddenly felt the need to explain herself.

"I'm still married," she said softly, with her hand resting on his arm.

"Yeah, I know," he adopted her quiet manner, "But…"

"And we still have a murder to solve partner," her tone turned light, but her eyes pleaded with him and her fingers squeezed his arm too tightly for him to believe the levity in her words.

She watched his mind turning behind his eyes, unable to read the thoughts but following their passage across his face. He looked as though he was about to argue with her several times, but after a minute of silence, he finally looked away, staring out over his mug through the window. "I love you, you know," he told her as an afterthought.

Smiling, she raised herself on her toes to kiss his cheek. "I know," she whispered into his ear.

Her tone was wicked and probably inviting trouble, which he gave her without hesitation with a hand on her waist pulling her body closer and the swift turn of his head before she had a chance to pull away. He kissed her fiercely, one hand on her face holding her mouth in place. When he was done, she was breathless.

"This isn't a game for me Katherine," he all-but-growled, eyes boring into hers.

He smelled so clean and appealing and it was a kiss that left her with very few doubts about his intentions, so she gave in to the little tremors of anticipation bursting throughout her extremities and began to _want_, wholly and unthinkingly. His lips moved along her jaw to her neck, teeth finding purchase beneath the collar of her blouse. She brought her hands to his arms, leaning back against the counter, mouth opening silently in pleasure.

She made a small noise of protest when his lips left her neck and he took a step away from her.

"Don't start something you're not willing to finish my dear," he told her seriously, bringing his hands up to rest on her elbows.

"I'm not," she assured him and let her tongue dart out to wet her swollen lips. The flush in her cheeks crept down her neck to the curve of her blouse. "I think we want the same thing Castle."

"So stay for a few more days," he begged as she moved closer, arms closing around his middle and head resting against his shoulder.

She shook her head, "I have to go. But we'll work from here, as usual."

He hugged her to his chest. "I like having you here."

"Oh Castle," she sighed, "What will people say?"

"They'll probably keep saying what they are already," he mused flippantly.

She made a displeased noise in the back of her throat at his joke, but didn't pull away. He was probably right. She found herself unable to care very much.

* * *

><p>She spent the afternoon installing herself in her father's house, in the room she had slept in as a child and he spent it working on his novel. She had been half-pleased half-mortified to learn that the publishing house was so taken with the first that they wanted him to write another. She was distracted from the dramatic shift in their relationship by Lanie's pressing for the story of what had happened with Will. They were sitting on her bed which they had just made up. She leant back against the covers and told it, dreading the inevitable conclusion, and paused when it came.<p>

"You have to promise not to tell Javier anything about the rest," she warned.

"You have my word," her friend looked confused. "Though I don't see what Javi could have to do with any of it."

"Well, after I left I … somehow ended up at Castle's. And I stayed there. I didn't want to wake up my father and you live so far uptown and at that hour," she trailed off, "Besides, I didn't want your neighbours to gossip."

"I understand," Lanie's eyes narrowed in a way that indicated that she definitely did understand, more than what Kate was plainly saying. "So you stayed at Castle's. And I can't tell Javier. Because... I _knew_ you liked him. And it's so obvious he's completely _goofy _over you."

"I wish you'd stop saying that," she admonished. "Everyone acts as though they know it better than I do."

"Well maybe it's just that when you take a step back from something, you can see the whole picture," Lanie told her sagely. "Tell me what happened. I want all the details. I've been boring you for months with tales of Javi and now you can repay the favour."

"I'm not sure there's a great deal to tell," she was being deliberately coy and Lanie could sense it. "You've already decided for yourself what happened and I'm sure your imagination does it a lot more justice than it deserves."

"Well, am I right?" her friend pushed.

She stared at her hands. "Yes. But Lanie… I don't know exactly what I'm doing. I wasn't thinking. I… Will and I are still married."

"Technically."

"Actually," she insisted. "And I'm afraid it doesn't reflect particularly well on me that the very moment I leave my husband I'm with another man. Please don't tell me that it's excusable because you're convinced I've been stuck on him for months now. If it's true, I'm sure it makes it worse."

Lanie patted her shoulder, comforting. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

"If only it were the heart that sang the loudest."

The impish remark garnered a delighted crow of laughter out of Lanie. "You can be so wicked," she told Kate, "Which is lucky, because sometimes you can be so proper. I could hardly stand it if you weren't. So, how was it?"

"I don't know if I should tell you. You'll tease me for it."

"I swear I will not."

She rolled onto her side. "You won't be able to resist. I couldn't have imagined it. It was so different. And part of me is glad I did it, even if I'm sure it was wrong."

"Katherine Beckett," Lanie smirked at her. "I dare say I'm proud."

"I don't think you should be."

There was a lull in the conversation. They lay on their backs and stared at the ceiling as they had when they were children, risking discipline if they were caught.

"Are you really leaving Will?" Lanie asked quietly, her tone suddenly serious.

"If not for the mysterious money he's been collecting from the man who killed my mother, then certainly for what he did to my face," she answered, just as quietly and without the hint of humour her words suggested. "I know it, before you even say it. It will be strange. But we're not children anymore Lanie."

It was a simple statement, but it filled the room with a memory-filled silence that lasted long after Lanie left for the subway and haunted her while she searched for sleep in the darkness. Her rest was fitful, and filled by half-remembered dreams of Will, of Castle and her mother, whose face she had started to forget consciously. She awoke to the morning light feeling unsettled, but with renewed purpose. Her uncertainty in personal matters made her more determined to find the missing link between the numerous crimes they had uncovered and their mastermind. She skipped breakfast and arrived at Castle's door far too early to be considered polite.

He didn't mind. He was wearing the clothes he had been wearing the day before, and his study showed all the signs of what she was beginning to recognise as a productive night of writing. He disappeared, leaving her poring over the work they had done, and reappeared in due time dressed and washed. She tried not to notice how enticing he smelled as he hovered at her shoulder. "What is it that has you at my door so early?" he asked, closer to her ear than she had realised.

She stepped away, only briefly fazed, and didn't answer him for a moment, returning to her line of thought.

"We need to find out what Will was doing for that money," she announced, pulling off her gloves in order to write her husband's name in the small amount of remaining space on their chalkboards. She drew an underline underneath it and dusted her hands.

"It can't be anything good," he warned, "And you know what they say about asking questions you don't want to know the answer to."

"I desperately want the answers to my questions," she assured him, "And I don't think we can solve this case without knowing."

"Well, I had Ryan look into it," he leant back in the desk chair and rummaged through the bottom drawer of his desk, "He didn't find much, but," he produced a thin manila folder and handed it to her, "He had a few of the usual contacts, some of whom have business dealings with Javier, which probably means they were paying him off to turn a blind eye to their operations."

"Maybe," she chewed her lip, thoughtful, "Can you set up a meeting?'

He nodded.

They spent the day visiting all kinds of criminals, most in the illegal trade of liquor. She learned quite a lot about the craft of brewing and of her husband's reputation for turning a blind eye to certain establishments and distilleries but not others. It was clear he was involved in some kind of deal with the Senator, favouring his enterprises over others. "Every bootlegger and moonshiner has his cop," Castle told her. "Requisitely. But they all think they're special."

She laughed.

It wasn't a particularly productive round of interviews so she returned to her father's house for dinner. They ate together. She hadn't had a chance to properly explain her presence and while they had been close when she was a child, her mother's death and all it's consequences had sat very neatly between them for several years. In the end, she couldn't bring herself to explain that Will was involved somehow in all that they had been investigating. She simply told him that they would be getting a divorce, in that way she didn't realise she had of silencing any argument. Her father stared at her, told her that he was sorry to hear it and that she was always welcome. It was an olive branch, and he had been extending them more frequently since he had stopped drinking, but this one, she didn't know how to accept.

She asked him to pass the potatoes, and no more was said.

* * *

><p>From there on it was slow progress until a Saturday in October, just before Halloween. She had arranged to meet Castle at Javier's to discuss what they had learned during the day, though perhaps it was less for work and more for the relief of seeing him. They had never spoken again of how their relationship had changed; she was unready to consider it and he was afraid to push her. So, while she was almost technically divorced, they still tried to keep things between themselves. She was a little late, and searched for him in the crowd as she hopped down the stairs.<p>

He was in the back corner at their usual table and had slung his coat across the chair beside him to save her a seat. The speakeasy was more crowded than usual, and she fought her way through the short distance from the stairs to where he sat. She sank into the chair and leant her shoulder against his in greeting. He smiled and pushed the gin he had already bought for her in her direction.

She sipped at it.

He groped for her hand beneath the table cloth. She let him take it, outwardly cool but inwardly relieved. She felt discrete. From above the table top, they appeared as they usually did and discussed the case with their usual mix of banter and finishing each other's sentences but beneath the table cloth, his fingers were twisted through hers and he occasionally traced a pattern against her thumb with his own. She gave him a small, conspiratorial grin and he squeezed her hand in response. Apparently, they held hands now. She was trying not to overthink it. In her situation, she figured overthinking just about anything would send her mind into overdrive.

Ryan arrived about an hour later, bearing a round of fresh drinks. He unloaded them on the table and slumped into the chair beside Castle.

"Heads up," he said, sounding quietly panicked, "Seems someone down at the police department has started to ask questions about that gangster that showed up outside the Spolano place. I don't know how they know what they know, but give them a few day and they're going to want to question you both."

Kate swore. Castle opened his mouth in surprise at her language. She rewarded him with her patented eye roll and took a long pull of gin, "What? You gotta way of putting it more succinctly?"

"Brevity, my dear, is definitely your strong suit," he shook his head, "And you're right. This isn't good news."

Ryan shrugged, "Well don't shoot the messenger."

Kate reached over and patted his hand, "We wouldn't dream of it."

"They don't have any solid evidence linking you to the crime, from what I could tell. I didn't want to snoop around too much, because everyone on the force knows I'm friends with Ricky, but from what I can tell, provided you keep your mouths shut, they haven't got a case."

"Since when has that counted for anything in this town?" Castle downed his whiskey. "The senator's a powerful enemy and we know he's fixed trials before."

"Well, there's no use worrying yerself about it tonight," Ryan sipped at his own drink. "They won't be at you until the morning at least."

"If it's going to be my last night of freedom," Castle, as usual, approached the situation with a literary bent that he liked to call flair and she liked to call melodrama, "Then I want to dance with you."

She smirked, but let him drag her out of her seat. The makeshift dance floor itself was thick with couples – the band that night was a good one – so he spun her around into the dark corner behind them.

"Anyone'd think you had less savoury designs," she teased.

Behind them, Ryan surreptitiously vacated their table in the interests of maintaining their privacy. He had taken to doing that lately, when they got particularly involved in a lively discussion or when Castle convinced her to dance. Castle bore the full impact of his teasing, but even Kate was beginning to suspect the detective was starting to feel like a third wheel. Lanie and Esposito didn't help matters. Even Castle thought they were cutesy.

"Maybe I do," he leant in and whispered it in her ear.

She let him pull her a little closer. By the end of the song, they were no longer dancing, strictly speaking, and she was glad of the dark. He was kissing along her jaw when she mumbled a half-hearted protest, "This isn't dancing Castle."

His breath was heavy in her ear. "Is that an objection?"

"More to the location than to the activity," she murmured, finding herself trapped between the wall and the warm plane of his body. Their mouths met, heatedly, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"You're amazing," he told her. She leant her head against the wall and pulled his mouth to hers by his collar. "We should stop," she said again. "Or we should start somewhere else."

"Lead the way," he stepped backwards and leant against the wall beside for her, "In a little bit. I need a minute."

She gave him a smug smile over her shoulder and returned to the table, their coats folded over her arm. She took his hand and gave it a gentle but insistent tug. They stopped at the bar to say goodnight to Ryan and Javier. She dropped his hand before they reached it. He crowded at her back though, so there was nothing for it but to endure the knowing smiles of their friends. She huffed out in a small sigh as they turned towards the stairs.

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head and took his hand again, dragging up the stairs, pausing at one of the many entrances to steal a kiss. His hands slid along the small of her back, sending her pulse racing with anticipation. "Come on," she whispered against his mouth. "Take me home."

He nodded, temporarily speechless, and let her pull him into the street.

As they hurried through the doorway, her fingers were pulled from his. A potato sack was pulled down over his eyes; he groped blindly, first for her then at the hands ensnaring him. He heard her struggling similarly against their captors but with a lot more success. A man yelled for help and used several unflattering descriptors when her heel found purchase, digging into his ribs. She was threatening to scream, and began to, the piercing cry echoing down the alley before a hand was clamped over her mouth. Then, after a dull thump, she was silent.

"Kate?" Castle yelled, arms pinned to his back by strong hands that refused to budge. "Kate?" he tried again, "What did you do to her?"

"Be quiet," the weight at his back hissed in his ear.

"Tell me she's not hurt," he was pulling toward the direction of her scream; the hessian bag over his head scratching at his cheeks.

"She's not hurt," the voice obliged, "Boss wants you both alive. Lucky for me, he didn't say he wanted you conscious though."

And then, before he realised what was happening, there was a dull pain at his temple and everything went black.

* * *

><p>When he came to, his wrists wouldn't move and his head pounded. He immediately squinted into the early morning light streaming through the dirty glass into the warehouse, turning his face away from the offending brightness. Blinking, he realised his hands were bound at the wrists behind his back, tied to Kate's; he could smell the familiar scent of her hair. He grabbed at her fingers, managing to squeeze her hand awkwardly. She stirred behind him.<p>

"Kate?" he whispered.

"Mmm, Castle?" she groaned. "Where are we?"

His eyes had grown accustomed to the light and his headache had subsided enough to be bearable. He took a cursory glance around the space. "A warehouse that's being used as a still," he concluded. "That's the smell; it's makeshift hops."

She shuddered behind him, "It reeks. And my head is positively pounding," she made a soft gagging noise, "I want to be sick."

"They must've knocked you around real good."

"Any idea who they were?" she leant her head back against his shoulder and he took a deep whiff of her hair. The smell of cherries was comforting.

"No," he shook his head, "I didn't see a thing before the bag came down over my eyes."

"_Shit_," she exclaimed, making a noise through her teeth and tearing at the ties that bound their wrists in frustration.

"You know, I'm beginning to realise you have a much fuller vocabulary than I had thought," he remarked as she struggled.

She gave up after a short tussle with the ropes. Realising it was futile, she slumped against his back, and sighed, blowing her stiff curls off her face. "It won't budge," she told him, unnecessarily.

He nodded, rubbing his thumb along her palm. "Don't worry. We'll get out of here."

"How? Do you have some kind of plan?" her rage at the situation very neatly transferred to him and his platitudes. She found herself grinding her teeth and released her clenched jaw, sucking in a calming breath.

"No, but …" he began to defend himself, tired, sore and similarly irate. He didn't like being faced with a situation he couldn't charm, cajole, buy or simply write his way out of.

"I told you when we first started out Castle, I don't need my hand held and you cooing some nonsense in my ear to calm me. I won't have you thinking you need to protect to my feminine sensibilities or some similar _nonsense_."

"I wasn't trying to mollify you. And if I want to protect you it's not to protect your _sensibilities_, if you have any, it's because I love you."

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Fine. If you're going to be petulant, I have nothing else to say."

"I am…" she huffed out half the sentence before realising how ridiculous she sounded. She bit down on her lower lip and clenched her hands into fists. He grabbed at them as well as he could with his fingers. "I don't mean it to sound stupidly optimistic," he said, "And I'd just as soon say the same thing if it was Ryan or Javier tied up behind me. You know how highly I think of you honey. It's just that… I have to think we'll make it out. The alternative is so utterly miserable I can't bear to think of it."

She relaxed her hands and linked her pinkie through his and whispered it. "I'm sorry."

He sighed and curled his finger around hers, "Me too."

Their captivity did not pass quickly for him. After the first two, uneventful hours, she began to fade in and out of sleep, but his mind was churning, processing scenarios slower than he could imagine them. The sun had long ago risen higher than the windows, and from his best estimation, it was early afternoon before anyone came for them. It was one of the men from the night before. He unbound them and gave them both water, but the weapon in his hand left little room for escape attempts.

"Boss'll see you now," were his only words.

She was expecting to see a familiar face, but when the gangster entered the warehouse from a door she hadn't previously noticed, she was surprised to find it wasn't the face she had anticipated. Charlie Pulgatti strode toward them, waving off his muscle. She squared her shoulders. Beside her, she saw Castle nearly slump with relief. Well, she supposed, it's true; Charlie Pulgatti was less likely to have them killed. Still, she didn't appreciate being nabbed off the street.

"Mister Pulgatti," she spoke first, calling his name across the warehouse so it bounced off the walls.

"Hello Miss Beckett," he answered. "Or Mrs Sorenson was it?"

"It's Beckett now," she responded, unflinching.

"I see. And Mister Castle," he nodded to the writer, stopping in front of them where they had dragged themselves to stand, the cut ropes still lax at their feet. "I see you've met my boys."

"We have," she affirmed, "Last night in fact. I wish I could say it was a pleasure."

"Well I've heard that you've got some information that might interest me," he said, "Some information that might exonerate my brother."

"We have leads," she said, "But nothing solid."

"I don't need solid missie," he made a fist at his side and leant into her personal space but she didn't turn her head. "I need that name you've got."

"And in return?" she asked. "What do I get?"

"Justice?" he retorted, "For your mother. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I'm not sure I'm interested in your brand of justice."

"Well how about protection?" he re-joined, "I've heard the law is gunning for you. You don't want me to be gunning for you too."

"That's true," Castle assured him quickly.

She whipped her head to glare at him. He shrugged. It was true; he didn't want Pulgatti or anyone else gunning for them for that matter.

"Well if I _don't _get my name the civilised way," he threaded his meaty fingers together. "Then I assure you, there are other ways. You're the easiest path to what I want Miss Beckett. Don't make things hard for yourself."

"I need time," she was thinking out loud, but Castle only knew that from observation. To a stranger she sounded as confident as she always did. "I know you mean to kill the man who wrongfully put your brother in prison, and I can't condone that. It won't help get your brother out."

"I know that. But he will pay for what he did to my family."

"Let me have a day or two to think it over," she bargained expertly, "I'll give you an answer the day after tomorrow. You'll have your name, and we'll know more about our situation with the law. You'll be in a better position to give me something I need in exchange for what you want."

"And if you don't?"

"If I don't," she met his eyes, "Then I guess I'll just have the law, a very powerful man and a second rate gangster gunning for me."

He guffawed. "Ah, I remember your tongue now." He grabbed her by the neckline of her dress. She struggled against his hold. "But there's nothing second rate about me or any of my boys, you got it? If you don't give me the information I want, then I will kill you."

She twisted out of his grip and straightened her dress. "I'm not afraid of that. Do we have a deal?"

He held out his hand to her. "We do."

* * *

><p>Pulgatti's men were polite for gangsters; they threw Castle and Beckett from the car onto the curb just a block from his rowhouse. She adjusted her skirt on the ground and stood gracefully while he scrambled to his feet. He turned to offer her a hand, but she was already walking down the street in the opposite direction to his house.<p>

"Kate," he trotted forward a few paces to catch up.

She paused and threw a glance over her shoulder, pausing when she saw him. He came to a stop beside her. She was smiling.

"What?" he asked.

"You looked funny, that's all."

"And if you don't mind me asking, where are you going?"

"Are you kidding Castle?" she half-laughed, half-sighed, rubbing at her wrists absently. They were raw from being bound so long. "After the day we had, I could use a drink."

"To Javier's then."

She nodded.

He led them through a different exit to the alleyway they had used the previous night. It opened into the back of the club, by the stage. A band was playing and the dance floor was crowded. He took her hand and they weaved through the dancing couples. He spun her into a seat at their usual table. Ryan was already there, halfway through a beer.

"Look who it is," he called over the music, "The two of you are awfully cosy these days."

She blushed and patted her head, checking that it was still pinned. "Excuse me," she stood, "I'm going to freshen up."

"Sure," Castle nodded, "I'll fill Ryan in."

As soon as the crowd swallowed her, Castle let his fist bump into Ryan's shoulder.

"_Ow_," the detective rubbed his bicep and made a face. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry for teasing your girl."

"Good," he sat down beside his friend, "Besides, it's not what you think."

"Come on, you don't expect me to believe you haven't…"

He made a face. "_No_. I mean. Yes. I mean, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

Ryan guffawed, "And since when has Rick Castle been a gentleman?"

"Since the lady was …"

"Actually a lady?"

"_Hey_. Not so good."

"Well you have to admit…"

"I have to admit what?"

"She's got class that one," Ryan finished his drink. The _unlike the others_was silent. "And enough brains that I expected her to be too sensible to fall for the likes of you, too."

"I've never had complaints," he sniffed, pride slighted.

"From showgirls and flappers?" Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"I'll have you know that Gina had class, in her way."

"Gina was mean as a shrew and had a nose like one too. Her saving grace was her figure and we both know it."

"She was well-read," he defended.

Ryan smirked. "I'm sure of it."

"Besides, Kate does have class, which is why I'm sure she doesn't need the likes of you spreading her business all about town."

Ryan narrowly dodged another clip to the upper arm, weaving out of his seat and towards the bar. "Fine. I'll keep me mouth shut in the future and, as a proper apology, I'll by the lady a drink."

"Oh wait, before you go, I had something to tell you."

Castle motioned closer. Ryan leaned in.

"On the way out of here last night Pulgatti's men jumped us," he told the detective, "Had us tied up in a warehouse down at the wharfs for the day. He's a little bit upset that we haven't been forthcoming about our investigation."

"Ah, so that's why the lass was so sensitive," Ryan remarked, "Normally a remark like mine'd get a good retort out of that one."

They both smiled fondly.

Castle grinned, "She's good for it."

"That she is. So I'll tell Javi you'll have his best whiskey and a gin for the lady?"

"Please. And ask him about some food would you? We haven't eaten since last night."

"Will do," Ryan nodded. "And this gangster, is he making serious trouble for you?"

"I think we can handle him."

"Well if that changes, you let me know."

"I will."

After Ryan went off to the bar, Kate reappeared looking freshly made up. She sat in Ryan's seat and gave him an apologetic look. "I didn't mean to run off. He just reminded me that we spent most of today kidnapped by gangsters and that I might not fit in too well if I didn't make myself more presentable."

"You don't need it," he reached over and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "And he shouldn't have said anything."

"Did you tell him about Pulgatti?" she let her face rest against his hand.

He nodded. "Said to let him know if he gives us any more trouble."

Her smile faded slightly. "Do you think he will?"

There was the hint of a bruise beginning at her temple. He pulled her closer, wrapped an arm around her and dropped a kiss against the purpling flesh before answering. "We bought ourselves time, but you know we're going to have to give him the answer he asked for."

She leant against his side and nodded, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. It was a quiet moment, despite the spectacle their surroundings provided. He kissed her again, "How are you feeling?"

She pulled backwards and smirked at him, "Where do I begin?"

"I meant your head," he loosened his hold, letting his hand slip down her arm and rest on her waist. She eyed it, then him and gave him another little smirk but when she didn't say anything he grinned to himself, feeling accomplished.

"My head is aching and I'm tired, but I don't think the damage will be permanent. Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

He made a face. "Pulgatti definitely interrupted something I was hoping to finish."

She raised an eyebrow but her retort died on her tongue when Ryan approached, balancing three drinks expertly in his hands.

"Whiskey," the Irishman set the tumbler down in front of Castle. "A pint, and," he slid the last tumbler across the table and announced it apologetically, "A gin for the lady."

"Thank you Ryan," she smiled at him.

"You're welcome. Oh, Javi says there're food and an open bottle of wine upstairs. You're welcome to it. He'll want to hear the full story when he's got a quiet moment... for business reasons."

"Tell him he's a pal," Castle took a sip of whiskey. "Actually Ryan, would you mind terribly if we ate now? You can join us."

Ryan shook his head. "No, no. You two go on now. I'll be here when you get back."

Castle followed his eye across the room where Jenny had just walked in wearing a new dress. "Ah," he jibed, "I see how it is."

Ryan very nearly blushed. "Maybe I want to ask her dance."

"I'm sure."

"Castle," Kate tutted, "Don't tease. Come on, I'm starving."

She'd turned away before Ryan's face broke into a smug smile. He made a whipping gesture with his hand.

Castle rolled his eyes and trotted off in pursuit of Kate. He caught up with her amidst a throng of other patrons moving through the small space and put a hand on her back. She whirled around into him, face relaxing from her initial surprise when she recognised him.

"Javier's place is up the stairs over there," he said in her ear.

The warmth of his breath in her ear crept down her spine. The hand at her back guided her toward a nearly invisible door in the wall beside the bar. When they reached it, he looked sideways, and held it open for her while they slipped into the narrow corridor within the bowels of the building. Ahead was a staircase more rickety than the one that led down into the bar. She gripped at the railings and took a tentative first step. At the top of the stairs, she opened the door to a small, dark flat that smelled of exotic cooking. He joined her on the top step, reaching ahead to turn on the lights, but for a moment they were face to face in the small space. Impulsively, she leant up on her heels and kissed him. He fell back against the wall in surprise. Castle brought his hands to her body, one arm around her waist and the other pushing her hair from her eyes and cupping her face. When she pulled away he held her close, kissing her forehead gently. "We're all right," he said, quietly.

She nodded, mutely, running her hands up his chest, fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt. When it fell open, she tugged at his undershirt, pressing her fingers into his stomach. Her hands were cool against his skin. She held her hand to his chest; his heart skittering beneath her fingers. The rhythm was a comfort, evidence of their continued survival.

"Just… be with me, please," she whispered in his ear as he bent his head to kiss her neck.

He pressed his mouth to her lips in reply, softly. She kissed him back with a kind of urgency. Desire was his response; it shot through him. He nudged her backwards, through the doorway and across Javier's small apartment to the bed in the corner. They collapsed into the mattress, pawing at each other's clothing. She laughed into his mouth as he struggled with the small, fabric-covered buttons along the side of her dress. He nipped at her bottom lip in reply but the trembling in her chest didn't stop. It turned into a surprised gasp when he abandoned his pursuit and thumbed her nipple through her dress. She wriggled out from under his hands and pulled her dress and slip over her head.

The room was cast in shadow. Her pale skin caught the yellow light of the streetlamp outside the window. He pulled her back down beside him, pressing his mouth to her neck. She caught his head between her hands and pulled his mouth to hers in a clumsy slip of tongues. His hand found her breast again, tugging at her nipple. He'd discovered she was quite receptive to a little roughness in the right mood. She moaned, nipping at his neck in response.

It lacked grace or finesse and was little more than a quick, fumbling in the dark driven by need more than want. He pressed his fingers against her, thumbing her clit while thrusting with his middle and forefinger. It was too much too soon, and she gasped but ground into his hand so he didn't stop. Clumsily, she managed to wrestle his pants open one handed. He shuddered and his hand paused when she let her hand slip along the length of his erection.

They knew each other's bodies well enough, and with mumbled encouragement and frantic kisses they moved together and even with his uncoordinated hands and her awkward position, she stilled, clenching around his fingers and gasping into his mouth. He thrust into her hand a few times more before spilling himself against her fingers. Breathing heavily, they lay still in the dimly lit room. She pushed him backwards with her sticky hand, wiping it against his undershirt and cuddled into his chest. His heartbeat was racing. She listened to the lub-dub rhythm, comforted by his pulse and her own screaming in her ears that they were alive.

He reached down and smoothed her hair. "We should clean up."

She nodded, and sat, stretching her arms out over her head. "You can go first."

He stood and pulled his undershirt over his head, throwing it square in her chest. "You might as well clean off with it now."

She wiped her hands and gathered her clothes together, waiting for him to finish in the small bathroom. He emerged, dressed from the waist down and stopped in front of her, letting a hand rest against her shoulder as he bent to kiss her softly. "I'll make dinner."

When she had washed up, she pulled his shirt around her and went to stand by the wood stove. He was stirring a saucepan full of spice-scented meat. She held her hands out to warm them against the fire. "What is it?" she peered into another pot containing rice and turtle beans, curious.

"Javier's mother's recipe," he told her, holding out the wooden spoon. "You look good in my clothes."

She eyed it suspiciously and nibbled at the offering tentatively. "Ooh. It's spicy."

"Here," he handed her a glass of wine.

She left him to the task of preparing their dinner and sat at the small table in the corner, smoothing the table cloth with her hands and twisting the stem of her glass between her fingers. "You must thank Javier," she observed, "For all his assistance. And Ryan. I know he teases, but he's been a help."

"I will," he approached juggling two bowls and his own glass of wine. He set down his load and placed one of the bowls in front of her with a flourish. "Madame."

She smiled quietly. "Thank you."

They ate in food-filled silence. It was different to what she was used to eating, but she was too hungry to savour the flavours. She scraped the bowl with her spoon and sat back in the chair, watching him eat. When he was done, she rose and took their things to the sink. She ran the water until it scalded her hands and scrubbed the dishes. He braced his hands on her hips and leant around to peck her cheek. "I love you Kate," he said very seriously, hugging her closer. She sighed back in response, leaning into his embrace and letting her eyes slip closed, her hands still immersed in the dishwater.

* * *

><p>The next day, she slept late which was why she awoke to a fuss in the foyer. She pulled on a robe and peeked down over the bannister, unnoticed, as Lanie scowled at Ryan and Castle paced. Interest provoked, she dressed hurriedly and pinned her hair as she descended the stairs, pins sticking out of her mouth at odd angles. Lanie moved to help her tame the last of it. She smiled, gratefully.<p>

She greeted them all politely but sought Castle's eyes. "What's happening?"

He opened his mouth but couldn't think of how to say it. Ryan interjected. "We're sorry to wake you, but I thought you both should know. That new information about that dead gangster's stirring up a fuss at the station this morning. The boys will be around in short order to bring you in for questioning."

Castle stepped forward and hovered at her side, like he was getting ready to catch her if she fainted. She gave him a look and he stepped back slightly. She relented a little and shuffled closer until their sleeves were touching. "What are we going to do about this?" she asked him.

Ryan loudly declared a desire for tea which Lanie begrudgingly obliged, leading him into the kitchen, giving them some space.

"I already called my lawyer," Castle took her in his arms. Her whole body sighed against him. "I explained the situation and don't worry, I didn't tell him about how you were involved; in an unofficial capacity he advised me to twist the truth. They don't have any solid evidence. Nobody except us saw what happened and the only reason the usual suspects haven't been rounded up and shipped off up the river is because our friend Senator Brown is pulling puppet strings. In any case, a trained killer had a knife to my throat. It was more than justified."

"So what? We go down there and lie?" she pulled back to stare at him. "My father is a lawyer Castle. I know that that's a crime in and of itself."

"Well if you tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, they won't let you leave. And prison, my darling, would be wasted on you, or you would be wasted on it. In any case, it's what your mother's killer wants, to publicly damage your credibility and lock you away where no one will listen to you. If it comes to it, I'll tell them I did it. Shh," he held a finger to her lips when she started to protest, "On this subject, I won't hear it."

She felt as though everything was falling in on top of them, on top of her. Suddenly claustrophobic, she pulled away from him and paced, looping into the living room and back. She stopped in front of her mother's desk and let her hand glance over the wood. He seemed to sense that she needed time to process, so he did the best job he could of leaving her alone, which amounted to hovering in the doorway, watching her carefully.

Eventually, she turned and looked at him sadly. "I'm so sorry for all this mess," she said, "I know I never asked you, but I should have known better than to let you be involved."

"It's not that bad yet," he took her by the shoulders. "This might be nothing, might be routine. They're not going to hold us if we don't say anything important. Ryan said they haven't bothered to fabricate any real evidence yet. It's a lot less work if you break down and confess."

"You'd break down before I did," she challenged.

"You're probably right. Kate," he tipped her chin up with his thumb, "We can do this, get past this."

"And after that?" she sighed, "Then what? How along until they actually arrest us? Do we tell Pulgatti's men what we know and let a man be murdered in cold blood, for revenge? What about your family? I can't let you tell them you did it; not for Alexis' sake."

"We'll worry about what happens next after," he promised her, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "One move at a time. This isn't chess."

She nodded, once. "All right. You're right. One thing at a time. But Castle? After this is done? We have to find a way to nail him once and for all."

He nodded his accord and released his hold on her. Ryan took his leave before his colleagues had a chance to catch him delivering the tip. She ate breakfast though she had no stomach for it while they waited. It wasn't long.

They weren't being arrested, the policemen made that clear, but they were being detained for questioning. In the basement of the police station, they were separated into two separate rooms. Hers was glaringly lit; the steel chair was cold beneath her hands. She waited for a time she couldn't place. There was little natural light. She tapped her foot impatiently.

Their first run at her was in relation to the events of the night Coonan had been killed. Those she took easily. It had been a long time since, and though she remembered it clearly she pretended she didn't. If she hadn't shot a man, it would have been a completely ordinary, unmemorable night. When it was clear they weren't going to get anything out of her that way, they switched tactics. The question about her divorce surprised her, but she brushed it aside as an anomaly. When it became clear it wasn't, and she was bombarded with increasingly personal questions, she became impatient with the process. She folded her arms across her body and gave shorter, terser one or two word answers.

The questions were brutal and personal. She felt thoroughly humiliated. Then there was all the things she realised she didn't know about her partner. That he had been married once before, she knew, but that there had been two arrests, and a series of other women, all public knowledge, made her question everything she knew about him. She had wanted to cry, but had refused out of pride, but by the end, she was angry. She bit her tongue to keep herself from using it, gripping the sides of the chair beneath her as tightly as she could. They didn't have a right, was all she could think, to ask questions so wholly unrelated to the matter at hand.

At last, she refused to answer a question about Will that offended her so completely she was unable to maintain her schooled expression. She was sure her true opinion of it was evident on her face. And she sat and waited as they processed the paperwork, letting her sit in the small, brightly lit room until they were required to let her go. She took her belongings at the front desk and primly replaced her gloves. Castle was pacing in the hall looking as miserable as she felt.

"Oh, Kate," his ashen face tried to brighten out of habit when he saw her. She was uncharacteristically silent when he put an arm around her, which should have cheered him but instead, made his heart hurt more. As he kissed her temple he murmured, "I'm sorry love. Was it awful?"

She shook her head once, "We won't talk about it here. Let's leave please, before they change their minds about letting us go."

The car was waiting for them outside the precinct. He nodded to the driver and opened the door for her. He was holding her hand, about to help her inside when the crack of gunfire behind them sounded. They fell to the ground. Kate pulled at the open door to shield them. There were only four shots. The first shattered the glass window above them, showering them with chunks of broken glass. The other three were embedded in the leather of the seats, leaving gaping black holes in the upholstery. The driver was staring at the damage with a stunned look on his face.

Immediately, policemen began to pour from the building, looking up at the surrounding buildings to see where the bullets at come from and who they had been intended for. In the chaos, she felt Castle tugging at her hand.

"Are you all right?" someone in the assembling crowd called.

She looked around her, but no one among the blur of faces was familiar. She brushed glass from her hair and his shoulders as they all but ran. He led them down the first side street and slowed, pulling off his hat to shake free the last of their souvenirs. Then he looked down at her, hugged her tightly and confirmed the results of his visual inspection with his hands. He kissed her forehead. "You're not hurt."

She tried for humour, but the quip felt flat. "If I was, I'd have been complaining long before now."

"Sorry," he scuffed his shoe against the ground, hands still resting against her shoulders. "It provided a kind of distraction I couldn't pass up. Having spent all day there I have no desire to dissect the thing for another few hours with our cities' finest. We know who did it, or at least, the suspect pool is small – it was either Pulgatti or Senator Brown – and since we know that, I think our best bet is to lay low, at least until sundown."

She nodded, still catching her breath. "Javier's," she said.

"What?"

"Javier's, the bar, it's in the basement and it won't be open for a few hours. It's only a few blocks over. We can wait out the search there, then send for Ryan. Your house would be better than my father's. There's more space in the back rooms and your mother is a better actress than Lanie. She'd never be able to lie if the police or worse came to the door."

He nodded, "Brilliant. You're brilliant." He hugged her quickly, and they set off down the quiet street at a hurried pace. They reached the alley where Coonan had been shot in a few short minutes, and he set to work pounding on the door and hollering for Javier. The barkeeper's flat overlooked the alley and his head appeared in the one, small window after several minutes.

"Castle," he commanded, "Quit your hollering."

"I'm sorry to wake you," Castle called from the street, "But we're in a spot of bother. Can you let us in?"

"I don't have much choice," the head disappeared, but the voice carried through the open window. "You'll kick down the door if I don't."

Javier appeared in the doorway seconds later. "Well come on then."

Castle held out his hand for Kate to go in first, and inspected the alleyway left-to-right before closing the door behind him.

"What have you two been up to now?" he was dressed in the slacks and undershirt he had been wearing the previous night. His hair was sleep-ruffled. A bottle of proper whiskey was already on the bar top. He popped the cork out and poured two glasses. Castle took one and downed it like a man in a desert. "You haven't heard from Ryan?"

"I was doing stock until 6 in the morning," Javier held out the other glass for Kate but she shook her head. He shrugged and sipped it himself. "Give us the goods."

"It was the bulls. It seems someone's been talking about how Dick Coonan ended up dead and they wanted to ask us a few questions, which in and of itself was an inconvenience, but as we were leaving the station, someone took a few shots at us."

"Poorly aimed shots by the looks of things," Javier inspected them both for damage.

"We thought we'd keep our heads down for the rest of the day," Kate told him, "Here, if that's all right with you."

Lanie chose that moment to appear from the doorway beside the bar, fully dressed if not properly coiffed. Kate gave her a look, pleased to finally be able to pay her back for some of the teasing she'd endured over the years. "Lanie," she said, feigning surprise.

"I had the day off," Lanie put one hand on her hip, daring her friend to challenge her.

"I'm sure you did," Kate smiled pleasantly.

"Anyway, what's this I hear about you and your boy over there getting shot at?" Lanie put an arm around her and led her over to a table where they could talk, out of earshot from the men.

Castle took the liberty of pouring himself another whiskey.

"Hell of a day you've had," Javier raised his own glass in a toast. "Heck, more like hell of a week."

"Hell of a year," he inhaled from his glass, "I almost can't remember how it started."

Javier smirked and began wiping glasses from the pile beneath the bar. "You got your head turned by a pretty lady. That's how things always start with you."

Castle slumped into a stool and stared at the amber liquid in his glass forlornly, "Don't remind me. They read her my record. I'm still half-afraid that when she's had time to process it all she'll never speak to me again. And given how long they hassled me about Gina, I'm pretty sure she knows about that as well. And that's the best of it, really."

"Castle, I've met scoundrels and killers and thieves. You're not cut from that cloth, and she knows it. And she's not naïve. She must have known there were others."

"Well it's one thing to know it and it's another thing to have it all laid out in front of you. And Javi," he twisted the glass in his hands, "I don't know what I'd do without her."

"You better go easy on the hooch my friend," Javier teased, "You'll be sobbing into it by five o'clock." They were silent for a moment until the bartender said, "Far as I can see, you love that girl more patiently and more honestly than you loved any of the others, and I've seen you with a lotta girls."

"That's true," the ghost of sly grin appeared above Castle's whiskey, but then his expression was serious again, and his tone matched it. "All of it's true."

"Ricky," he slung his towel over his shoulder and leant across the bar to clap Castle on the shoulder, "You go tell her that and she'll forget whatever she heard."

Castle rubbed his face with his hand, "Would that it were true."

"On the other hand, you keep sulking around my bar and I'll think of something really awful that the police don't know about to tell her."

"You do that and I'm sure there's any number of incidents that Lanie would just love to hear about. And I'm told I tell a good story."

"Yeah, but that's the difference between my girl and yours," the bartender was already ducking behind the bar as a handful of ice from his ice bucket came hailing down on his head, "Mine's got a sense of humour about breaking the law."

"What are you boys doing over here?" Lanie drawled, leaning her elbow on the bar beside Castle. "Javi baby, give us a couple of drinks. I know it's only four in the afternoon but gunshots aimed at you or your friends earn you a free pass in my book. And yours too, obviously," she patted Castle's shoulder. "Thank you for looking after my girl."

"Not sure who was looking after whom Lanie," he told her honestly, "But you're welcome."

"What are you two going to do now?" she asked.

"To be honest," he considered his words carefully. "I know she's not going to like it, but I'm not sure there's anything else to do. We don't have the power or influence that the Senator does. Either Pulgatti is gunning for us, or they both are. I think … we have to leave the city."

"You're right," Lanie took a sip of Javier's latest concoction. It was gin based and tart, and tasted heavily of maraschino cherries. "On all counts. She'll hate the idea and yet, it's the best one I can come up with. I just don't see how Mrs Beckett's murder is worth either of your lives. I'm sure her father would agree with me."

"Really?" Castle was suddenly struck with inspiration. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a pen and small notepad. "Lanie, would you be a dear and take him a letter from me? Quick, I'll write it now and leave it with Javier at the bar. When we leave, could you run it over?"

"Yes, of course," Lanie nodded, taking the second drink Javier had just placed on the bar in her other hand. "And baby, these are delicious."

The bartender grinned. "Only the best for you."

Castle made a face. "I can't bear to listen to it."

"Oh hush. I'm sure you're much worse when you get going," Javier teased. "All flowery prose, dripping with sentimentality."

"Not likely. She'd laugh at me. Or worse."

Lanie came back to the bar for two more rounds before she and Kate were done with their conversation. It had turned from the serious matter of the attempted shooting and the investigation to the far less serious matter of Lanie spending her days off in Javier Esposito's bed.

"Oh don't fuss at me Katie," she smirked in the face of her friend's conveniently newfound principles. "Just because Castle has you home every night by eleven doesn't mean you're not fooling around. I've seen the two of you necking in the hall when you think your father is asleep."

"Lanie! Don't _spy _on me!"

"It's payback for you tattling to my mother about Sam Johnson when we were kids," Lanie told her, "It's cute though, the way he carries on like a kid himself around your father. I think it's because he likes you," she said in a mock whisper.

Kate rolled her eyes. "He's convinced he does."

"And you're not?" her friend nudged her shoe under the table when her face fell to studiously study her drink, "You can't be serious Kate. He _worships _you. I could see it a mile off, the very first time I met him."

"Sex isn't the same as love Lanie," she ran her fingers along a groove in the wood. Javier hadn't yet put out the table cloths.

"No, it's not," Lanie agreed, "But he loved you for a long time before he ever did a thing about it."

She sighed, trying not to sound morose. "I feel as though I don't know anything anymore. I'm unsure of everything." Her friend's gaze was quizzical, so she elaborated. "I never thought my mother would die. And when she did, I always assumed that my mother's killer would be brought to justice, but now that seems unlikely. When I married Will, I thought …" she searched for words, "Well I didn't expect _this_."

"Is it a bad thing though? That your life took a course you didn't expect?"

"I suppose it's not," she ran a finger down the side of her glass, "At the police station today, I learned some interesting things about Castle."

Lanie let her talk in her own time. After years of practice, she knew it was the best way to learn her secrets.

"I suppose it's not exactly _surprising_ that there have been others, other women. It was the way they said it though; like I was unrespectable because of it, because he's been out with showgirls and actresses and girls with reputations, like I was doing something wrong," she sighed. "And maybe I am. You're not supposed to get divorced. You're not supposed to … well. It didn't suddenly come from nothing when I left Will. I like to say it did. But it didn't. I mean, nothing _happened _except we kissed once, in May," she trailed off, "I was so determined not to let them get to me Lanie. I'm mad at myself because they did."

Lanie reached over and squeezed her hand. "You didn't do anything wrong. You know that."

"I know. I just… don't you worry? With Javier, aren't you worried about having a baby?"

Lanie laughed, "Not worried exactly. But we're careful. And if we do, we'll get married."

She sighed, "I wish it was that simple."

"Well people aren't shooting at Javi and I," her tone was admonishing. "Honey, you have to be careful. Ryan thinks you should run, and quickly."

"I'm not ready yet," she was feeling slightly cheered after the alcohol and the conversation with her friend.

Lanie disappeared to the bar to refill their drinks yet again. By the end of the glass, she was smiling and Javier's was starting to fill with patrons. Castle appeared at her elbow. "We should get going. Javier sent Ryan for the car. He'll meet us out back in a few minutes."

She took his hand and spun herself around beneath it, then sighed. "I actually feel like staying tonight. But before you say it, I know we can't. Come on then."

"What did you and Lanie talk about?" he asked, his hand wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the Autumn chill. The days had grown shorter and it was already dark despite the early hour. He leant his head against hers.

She fisted her hand in his sleeve and slid one arm around his waist, a mischievous grin on her face as she looked up at him. Her finger jabbed at his chest. "The criminals we keep as company. You sir have quite the record."

"It wasn't _that _long," he protested, meekly.

"Stealing a police horse?"

"Borrowing."

"Naked?"

"I had my socks on."

"Dare I ask?"

"I think we'd both prefer it if you didn't."

"And they had another interesting list," she continued, breezily. "Of women. That one _was _long."

"Kate."

She could be mean when her tongue was loosened with liquor.

"No, no, it's ok. I suppose we've both been married and I'm not an idiot. I knew there must have been others. I just didn't really expect to have a police detective read me the list and compare me to each and every one. I particularly liked the one they called 'serious'. A showgirl, they said, who offered extra services."

"Oh honey. I'm sorry. Believe me, there's no comparison. And _that _was a misunderstanding. Gina never … took any money. It wasn't much better for me I'm afraid. They definitely reminded me of some past mistakes that I'm not very proud of."

She sighed. "Is that what this is, what it _will _be?"

"No," he was petting her hair. He'd made a habit of it lately. "Why would you say that?"

"Because I was called an adulteress and a quiff this afternoon and informed that my… " best friend, boyfriend, lover, "Partner has been arrested on two separate occasions, and in between times has managed to run through most of the single women in Manhattan."

"I told you I wasn't proud of it. But you're different. You challenge me and inspire me and there's never been anyone that came close. Not even Meredith. You're extraordinary. And I do love you. Please, don't let it trouble you."

"Lucky for you, I've got more important things to worry about," she said meaningfully, hugging him closer and resting her head against the hollow his shoulder for a second before pulling away. When Ryan pulled up, they were standing just out of each other's reach and in silence. The police detective looked over the seats at the pair of them when they clambered into the vehicle. "You both look miserable," he declared. "I heard what happened but usually bullets just encourage you two."

"Well," Castle studied the passing cityscape, "These bullets were a little too close for comfort."

"Aye," Ryan nodded, "In my professional opinion it's time you both ran. Go somewhere quiet and far away from New York."

"But we're so close," Kate spoke, tearing her gaze away from the window to stare at the back of Ryan's head. "We can't give up now."

"No shame in knowing when yer licked," Ryan advised them sagely. "Besides, these gangsters, they've got their own way of making things right. You can trust Pulgatti will take care of things in your stead."

He dropped them in the small lane beside Castle's house. There was a barely-used door that led to the laundry just off the kitchen. Martha was waiting to let them in when they knocked. She was smiling, customarily, but her forehead was creased with worry. She hugged her son fiercely when the door was safely fastened behind all three of them.

Ryan tipped his hat to her as he removed it. "Martha," he grinned, "You look lovelier every day."

"Oh stop it," she slapped at his arm. "Don't think you can distract me from the fact that my son was shot at this afternoon. Oh Richard. You'll be the death of me."

"Mother," he patted her hand, "You'd be half as worried if you were half as dramatic. Kate and I are both fine."

"That's not to say it's not a dire situation ma'am," Ryan interjected. "Some pretty serious bad folk have taken an interest in the pair of them. It's my opinion that remaining in the city is unsafe."

"Richard, listen to your friend."

"Well," he caught Kate's steady gaze over his mother's shoulder. "That's something we need to discuss."

Ryan stayed for several hours, analysing the details of their interview with the police. He was convinced they were reaching. The interrogative approach made little sense otherwise. Still, he advised caution; sometimes if enough money was changing hands, "evidence" could be found long after it was physically likely. Castle was willing to bet money that it wouldn't be long until such evidence was produced, and in that event, it was likely they'd both be arrested. Ryan also provided useful information about crossing the Canadian border, how it might be achieved and what they would need to organise or buy. He left just after ten. Martha had already bid them goodnight.

When Castle closed the front door behind the policeman, he re-joined Kate in his kitchen. Then the real debate began. They discussed their options, smoking in the dim light of a candle. The curtains were drawn to hide the light in case they were being watched. His hand grasped hers with an intensity that ached after a while. She didn't notice though; her mind was on other things.

"I don't think they'll come after our friends and families," she whispered. Talking aloud seemed too conspicuous in the quiet house, and besides, Alexis and Martha were asleep directly above them. "The only reason I can see to do that is to draw us out, and this man wants to stay invisible. You're known in this town and it would get people talking, which, given his past crimes, is the last thing he wants."

"Maybe," he said quietly, "But I've already organised for Ryan to buy them two tickets to Paris in the morning. Mother is always raving about Paris and the creative scene there and it'll give Alexis a chance to improve her French. If we leave, they can't come with us," it was a statement, but she could hear the slightest hint of the pain it caused him. "And I don't want to leave them in the city alone."

"Maybe we could visit them," she said to soothe him. She let her cigarette burn to ash in the ash tray and reached out to smooth the hair at the back of his neck. "In a little while, when things have settled here in the city."

"Maybe," he echoed, letting his head rest on his hand for a moment. He didn't say it, but she could hear it in his silence, _that might be a long time_. There was nothing for it, no words she could use as a salve, so she tightened her grip on his fingers and nudged his shoulder. It hurt her to see him so torn; he loved his daughter, she knew, and her heart ached for him. She knew, rationally, that she had never asked it of him and in fact, most of the time, she found him intrusive. In that moment though, the anger faded into guilt; she should never have let him become so entwined in her personal battle. She almost apologised, again, for not having more foresight.

"We need to leave Kate, as soon as possible. We should go to Pulgatti for protection and ask for his help getting over the border. I know some people in Canada, some enterprising friends of Javier's. They can help us once we get there."

"I'm not done with this," she argued, "We're so close. With a little more time we could take the case to Ryan and the police… just, a little more time Castle."

Castle shook his head, "He knows we're after him. At Coney Island, the man who was shooting at us saw us. He must have recognised one of us and tipped off his boss. Those shots earlier weren't a warning; we're just lucky he sent a thug with such poor aim."

"So you're saying we give up?" the look she gave him made it clear just what she thought of that particular option. "She was my _mother _Castle."

"He'll kill you Kate, just like he's killed anyone else who stood in his way. And you're too important to me to let that happen. There are other ways. Let Pulgatti handle this."

"Death is too good for him," she violently snubbed out the butt of the cigarette, two times more than was necessary. "I want him to have to live with it. I want his life to come apart at the seams and for him to have to try to piece it back together. That's justice. Killing him makes it too quick, too easy for him. And it reduces me to his level."

"Shh," he warned, "You'll wake mother and Alexis. And justice isn't worth your life Kate, nothing is. I won't let you do it."

She jerked her hand free, "The hell you won't. You don't own me Castle. We're not married. We're not even …" she pushed her chair back and paced the room, "A few nights in my bed does not give you the right to tell me what I can and can't do."

With an angry passion that surprised them both, he stalked over to her and took both her hands at the wrists, holding them against her chest. She was half-terrified by the look he gave her, eyes burning in the dim lighting. She stepped backwards until she was trapped against the sink, trying to school her traitorous limbs that had begun to tremble slightly, though whether it was fear or anticipation she didn't know.

He kissed her, teeth scraping her lower lip and hands running through her curls, pulling the pins from her hair. They clattered against the counter until the length of her hair was spilling over her shoulders. He tugged at it until their mouths crashed together more violently. Her hands were on his face, fingers slipping along his hairline. His hands found their way beneath her dress, tugging down at her bloomers, nails catching against her stockings.

He lifted her easily, and her skirt hitched as he did. He set her down on the counter and lifted it up, over her head. It fell to the floor with the clatter of beads.

She let her head fall to one side, granting him access to her neck. His usually gentle ministrations were rougher, more likely to bruise than usual. She dug her fingernails into his arms, tugging at his ear with her teeth.

This was possessive, on both their parts. She pulled his shirt from his slacks and began wrestling with his belt until he stopped her with his hands, making quicker work of it himself while she pulled her dress over her head.

She was still wearing her shoes, and when she wrapped her legs around him they dug into his lower back. She pressed them into him in encouragement. His hands found her breasts, kneading them beneath his palms. She leant back on her hands, pulling him closer with her crossed legs.

"Now," she pleaded, panting softly, "Please now."

He teased her, pushing into her just barely and stopping. She sunk her teeth into his lip in response. His body confused the pain for desire. He pressed into her roughly, holding her steady at the hips with a hand, digging his fingernails into her stomach. She wrapped her arms around his neck, grip pinching at his shoulders. She keened into his mouth as he slammed into her again and again. Their foreheads collided roughly. He pressed a thumb against her clit between them, the movement of their bodies forcing it against her. With his other hand, he covered her mouth to silence her crescendoing whimpers of pleasure. Her teeth sank into his hand when she came, and her whole body was shaking. He felt it shoot through him, felt her nails raking at his back and the wet heat of her and thrust forward, letting his head fall into hers, his anger draining out of him with his release. It stung between her legs, but she held him there with her crossed feet, hands reaching out to stroke his cheeks.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," he whispered, placing tiny kisses along her hairline.

"You didn't," she whispered back. "Or I wanted you to. I'm sorry if I hurt _you_."

He realised his hand was starting to ache where she had bit down on it. "It's ok," he stroked his hand along her hair, smoothing it where he had yanked at it.

He stepped backwards and buttoned his pants, leaving his shirt unbuttoned. He stooped and swept up the dress and slip she had flung halfway across the room, handing them to her as she debated whether her legs were still too shaky to stand. She thanked him, quietly, but before she could dress he reached out and picked at the chain she wore around her neck.

"I don't want to tell you what to do," he held her mother's ring in an open palm; the chain stretched out from between her breasts. "I know I can't. But I can ask you not to do this, to be realistic, to stay with me. Please."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, staring at the ring in his hand. She looked up and pressed her hand to his cheek, "I can't."

* * *

><p>She returned to her father's house after midnight expecting to find it dark and quiet. Instead, there was the glow of firelight from the living room. She hesitated in the hall, floorboards creaking beneath her heels.<p>

"Katie," her father greeted her from the other room, "Come here."

She paused in front of the mirror in the hall and tried to re-pin a few stubborn looks of hair into her coif. She hardly looked presentable; there was a long ladder in her stockings where he had clawed at them and her rouge at smeared at the corners of her mouth. She hurriedly covered it as best she could with her powder and ran one last hopeful hand over her hair. It was the best that could be done.

"Father?" she called softly, heels clacking against the wooden floors to announce her presence.

He was sitting on the couch facing the fire, hands clasped in his lap and looking pensive. He hadn't always been a thinking man – her mother had definitely been the more ponderous of her parents – but after her death, she had found him with that same look on his face over and over. At first she worried he had been drinking, but he didn't smell of it when she bent to kiss his cheek. "I didn't expect you to be awake," she remarked.

"I've been thinking," he told her.

He patted the seat beside him. She took it, smoothing her skirt.

"You're out very late," he observed, neutral though she mistook it for criticism.

"You're one to judge," she sniped prettily.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," he patted her hand, "Just be careful. It's not safe in some parts of the city after dark."

"I was at Castle's," she told him, "It's only four blocks."

"I thought you would be," her father smiled, "We spoke the other day when he came to pick you up. He's quite taken with you Katie."

She was a little mortified.

"Lanie told me what happened," he confessed in a low voice, "I was worried, couldn't sleep. I wish you would have called to let me know you were all right."

"She shouldn't have done that," she half-scowled. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry."

"But I should be worried, shouldn't I?"

She stared at her hands, "I don't know. Castle thinks so. The man who killed mother, he knows we're closing in on him."

"He had you shot at."

She nodded. "But if we just had some concrete evidence we could take to the police, I think we could get him."

"When there are bullets involved, a man is serious about what he wants, and it seems he's got into his head that he wants you dead. I already lost your mother Katie, I don't want to lose you too," he pulled her against him in a brief hug.

She let her head rest against his shoulder. A few tears came, but they were silent. She did her best to hide them. "That's what Castle said. He wants to go away together, somewhere we'll be safe."

Her father politely ignored her tears. "And you don't want to go?"

"I told him I couldn't," she wiped at her cheeks furiously, "Not before mom gets justice. So I, I left."

"Your mother told me once, when you were sixteen and Will Sorenson started coming around all the time, to stay out of your relationships with men. She told me you could make up your own mind about who to love, and that by interfering I'd just encourage you to do exactly the opposite of what I advised you to do. I believed her. I still do. And I know things are different these days and there are young ladies that carry on with men they're not married to. But I have to ask you Katie, do you love him?"

"I don't know," she admitted, "I think I ought to, that I _might_if I let myself. But I'm scared."

"Oh daughter," he laughed in a soft huff against her hair, tucking her underneath his chin, "There are things in life you should be afraid of, men with guns coming to kill you for example, and yet you choose the one thing that might bring you real happiness."

"You have a high opinion of love," she told him, "After mother died, it changed you."

"Of course it did," he pulled back to look her in the eye, "I loved your mother, and losing her hurt more than anything. It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, and I didn't even do it very well. But I can honestly tell you that I never, not for one second, regretted loving her."

"Why?"

"Because if I had never met her, even after the pain of losing her, my life would be half as happy, half as good. There will be pain in your life whether you invite it in or not, you know that. And you also know that you don't know what will happen tomorrow, or the next day. I would do anything, _anything_for one more second with your mother. You cannot waste what precious time you have on fear."

"If we leave, we won't ever be able to come back," she leant back into him and hugged him around the middle, as she had when she was a little girl.

"But you'll be safe, and you'll be alive," her father stroked her hair, "And you'll write."

"I promise."

"And what of what you've found?" he asked.

"Well Castle has a contact in the police. He'll do what he can, but with the man's political connections there's not much hope of official justice."

"You say that like you've thought of an alternative."

"Mother was helping Scott Murray on a case when she died, I told you that. An innocent man was sent to prison. He was … well his family run several illegitimate businesses. They want their own kind of justice. I told them we would help them get it, in exchange for their protection."

"Vengeance only begets more vengeance," her father told her, "You know that."

"In my head, yes. In my heart? If that's the price of our safety?" she sighed, "Nothing is simple."

"I want you to have something," he drew back and she sat upright. He pulled his watch from his pocket and placed it in her waiting hand. "To remind you of me, and because without you Katie, I would have drowned in the bottom of a bottle."

She stared at it before closing her fingers around it, tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you."

"Oh, and this," he removed an envelope from the front pocket of his jacket. When she peered inside it contained a fat wad of bills. "To help you get away. I know Mister Castle has some money, but in case it isn't enough."

"I can't take it," she pushed it back towards him, "That must be three months of rent."

"It's the money I would have spent drinking," he told her, "And it's yours, rightfully. I've no other use for it. Besides, with you leaving, I thought I would go and stay with my sister in Albany."

"How did you know I was leaving?" she caught a hint of something hinky.

"Mister Castle sent a letter with Lanie. He told me you wouldn't tell me how serious things were."

"Show it to me," she demanded.

"He also told me I should burn it after I read it. Now I see he wasn't just being dramatic."

"He had no right," she grumbled.

"Has he told you what he told me in that letter? About how much he cares for you?"

"He says he loves me," she dismissed it as unimportant, "If that's what you mean."

"He also said he'd ask to marry you, if he thought there was the slightest chance you'd have him."

"Sometimes that man isn't as dumb as he looks," she said darkly.

"Don't be like that; he just wants you to be safe. And so do I. Please. You're my daughter; you have to let me protect you when I can. I've never asked you to do anything you didn't choose for yourself Katherine, but I am asking you to do this."

"And if I don't want to go with him?"

"I'll take you myself," he patted her arm, "If that's what you want. But I don't think it is."

She stared at the dying fire, embers fading into the charcoal, "No. I suppose it isn't."

He waited downstairs as she packed her bags. She chose sparingly, leaving most of her things behind. She told her father to let Lanie have her pick of them. They might have to travel around a lot in the next little while, and it wouldn't do to have lots of things. She said goodbye to him at the door. They embraced tightly. She felt a sudden urge to stay. He was getting old. He would need her to take care of him.

"Make sure you're good to Lanie," she told him. "Let her help you."

"I will, I will."

"Promise me?"

"Ok, ok I promise."

She hugged him again.

"I love you Katie; don't you ever forget that. You're my favourite daughter."

It was an old joke. She laughed, even as tears came to her eyes as she took in the entrance to her childhood home, the railing of the stairs she had slid down as a child, the rug with the stain from where she had spilled her hot tea, the mirror in the hall where she had checked her reflection on her wedding day, and beyond a wooden arch, the small writing desk that she had hid underneath in countless games of hide-and-seek and more often, sat on her mother's knee and listened to stories from the books that fascinated her. There were so many memories she had pushed back because they were painful. It seemed now to be painful to forget.

"I'm your only daughter," she answered, in keeping with tradition and he nodded once.

She kissed him and let her hand linger on the door knob. He ushered her onwards with a brief, one-handed wave and she went, reluctantly, into the chill of early morning.

She was standing on Castle's doorstep as the sun rose, clutching a suitcase in hands gloved in white lace. He was wearing the shirt he'd had on the night before when he opened the door. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, he was unshaven and there was the slightest smudge of ink at the side of his mouth. She wanted to kiss it. He was staring at her like he didn't quite believe it was real, like maybe he'd fallen asleep at his desk again and was dreaming the whole thing. She nodded yes to the question his eyes were asking and stepped past him into the house.

As soon as her suitcase was safely deposited next to the growing pile of Martha's things in the hall, he was at her back, hands on her shoulders, twisting her around until she was leaning against the wall. She brought her arms around his neck, pulling off one of her gloves behind his head then reaching forward to wipe the corner of his mouth with her thumb. He hugged her waist, sinking his face into her hair and breathing her in.

"I didn't think you would come back," he said, lips warm against her ear.

"I wasn't going to," she admitted, "I was going to write you and tell you to go with your family. You shouldn't have to be a part of this. It's not fair. I'm so sorry," she let her hand ghost against the side of his face, "But I didn't want to leave you. Just this once, I think I'm going to be selfish."

"No," he kissed the skin behind her ear, "This is exactly what I want."

"That's because you don't have any sense," she told him.

"No, it's because I love you Kate."

"That's the same thing," she argued as she turned her face to kiss him.

"I called Pulgatti and told him to send for us here tonight," he told Kate, "Just in case. I still hoped you'd come."

"Well here I am," she pulled her skirt wide in a sort of curtsey. "What did you arrange?"

"He's making a purchase off the coast, just outside US waters, tonight after midnight. For a little extra, the captain of the ship will take us back to Canada with him. I hope you don't get seasick; it's supposed to be a rough journey. After that, we'll travel on land, by car or by train. It's your choice. Javier has a few contacts out west in British Columbia. I'd like to meet up with them. They're good people; people we can trust."

Kate nodded, "Ok."

He ran his hands over her cheeks again, tugging at her face until it was within kissing distance and pressing his mouth to hers softly. "I almost don't believe you're here."

She laughed, quietly and melodically. "How shall I convince you?"

He kissed her forehead, "I can think of some ways."

Alexis and Martha were scheduled to leave mid-morning. The intimate exchange in the hallway was interrupted when Martha ghosted past. Castle scowled less when she returned with two mugs of steaming coffee. Kate buried her nose in it in thanks. Castle took one mouthful and handed it back to his mother.

"Is Alexis awake?" he asked.

"She's all packed," Martha assured him. "I saw to it last night."

He turned back to Kate and put a hand on her arm. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to go upstairs to check on her."

She nodded and watched him ascend the stairs. Her expression was pensive. Martha lingered beside her, "Don't you worry about him Kate. My son loves that girl more than anything in this world, except maybe you, and he knows he has to protect her."

Martha leant into her arm lightly. It was a comforting weight.

"I wish we could go with you," she leant back. "I don't know what's going to happen, but hopefully it will be taken care of soon and we can join you. I don't like to think I'm responsible for breaking up your family."

Martha scoffed and linked their arms, patting her shoulder, "My dear, it takes more than an ocean to break up a real family. You do what you need to do and don't even think about coming until it's safe. Now come upstairs and help me choose which evening dresses to leave behind. The decision is absolutely killing me."

In Alexis' bedroom, Castle was watching his daughter sleep. Each huff of breath disturbed the front locks of her strawberry hair. How had she got so big? He remembered the first day he had put her in the small bed. She had been nearly three years old and her feet had barely reached halfway down the mattress. She had kicked them out beneath the blankets, loudly demanding a story. He reached over and stroked her hair. He was going to miss the last years of her childhood which made him feel simultaneously sad and mischievous, thinking of his mother dealing with his daughter's growing pains. Alexis stirred, kicking out her feet as she always had and rolling on her side towards him.

"Daddy?" she yawned, still half-asleep.

"Morning pumpkin," he let his hand rest on her shoulder. "I've got a surprise for you."

His daughter blinked at him. "What is it? What is it?"

She shrugged off his hand and sat up in bed. "Should I close my eyes?"

"No, no; it's not that kind of surprise. You and gram are going on a trip."

"Where are we going?" she was immediately half as excited and more thoughtful. "And why aren't you coming? And why is it a surprise?"

"Well," he held out a hand and pulled her to a standing position on the bed, standing himself so their eyes were level. "It's a surprise because I only thought of it last night. And I'm not going because it's …" he took both her hands and encouraged her to jump on the mattress. She bounced, "Yes daddy?"

He let go of her hands and stared at her sadly.

"Well," he sank down onto her bed and patted the space beside him. She bounced once more, into a sitting position and looked up at him curiously. "You see," he began, haltingly, "Kate's mother was killed a long time ago by a very bad man, and now he wants to come after Kate as well. So I want you and gram to go to Paris to live for a little while, where it's safe for you, and I can't go with you because I have to go with Kate and take her somewhere else where we'll both be safe too."

"Where will you go?" his daughter frowned.

"It's a secret and I can't tell you," he put an arm around her and crushed her to his side, "Because one day the bad people might come and ask you, and if you know, they might do some awful things to you to make you tell."

"I'd never tell," she declared resolutely. "Do I have to get dressed now?"

He nodded.

"Will you braid my hair?" she asked.

"Gram does it much better," he ruffled said hair.

She squinted up at him reproachfully.

"But I want you to do it."

"Then I will," he promised, "Now go, get dressed. In a dress please."

When they had successfully sorted Martha's evening wear into two trunks, one for storage and one bound for Paris, Kate wandered down the hall to Alexis' room. She carefully opened the door and peered through. She watched from the doorway as Castle struggled with his daughter's hair, trying to wrangle it into a French braid. He must have heard her or sensed her watching, because he turned to her and smiled.

"I'm sorry," she was halfway back into the hall, "I didn't mean to intrude."

"No, come in."

Alexis' head bobbed and made a noise of protest.

"Oh wait," he leant over his daughter's shoulder, "She's right. It's her room; she should be the one to invite you. How silly of me."

"Alexis, may I come in?" Kate asked, implored to play along by Castle's eyes.

"Yes, yes," she clapped her hands together, "Of course."

"May I help your father with this braid? He's having some trouble back here."

"Yes, please help him."

Castle made a wounded noise. "But you begged me to do it for you."

"Just like when I was a baby," his daughter confirmed, "But sometimes your braids are a little crooked daddy."

"Yes they are," Kate slipped her hands over Castle's and unwound a few pieces of hair, "Because you're pulling too much with this hand. Come on."

Together, they pulled Alexis' hair back into a sleek braid.

"It would have been helpful to have you around when she was younger," Castle murmured to Kate as she tied the braid with a tight bow. He snaked his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek.

Alexis tipped her head back and stared up at them, "All done?"

"Yes," Kate dropped her hair. "You're ready."

"As you should be," Martha swanned into the room and spun her granddaughter in a full circle. "Look at you. You look pos-i-tute-ly wonderful." She turned her attention to the adults, "Well don't you two make a picture?"

Castle beamed.

"Come on, all of you, there's breakfast in the kitchen. And especially you two," she waved her hands at Kate and Castle's direction. "In uncertain times, it's important to eat when you can."

Martha didn't stereotypically fit the matriarch role; in her brightly coloured skirt and blouse she didn't particularly look the part, but she commanded a certain respect and shared some of the best unexpected wisdom. They all turned and obeyed.

Alexis bounded down the stairs in front of them and was already sitting in her usual seat, swinging her legs beneath the table when the adults joined her. Kate moved to help Martha serve the eggs. When they were done, Martha stood immediately and piled the dishes in the sink.

"I don't want to hurry you, but we need to be at the port shortly. I've already called a car. And Richard, be sure that _you_do those dishes please. Kate's still a guest in your home."

"She picks the oddest times to be a mother," he stage whispered. Kate hid a smile behind her hand.

"Do you have enough money?" he asked, "I have to stop by the bank later today, but you should be able to access what's left in the account from Paris."

Martha patted the purse that was hanging on her wrist. "We've got enough for the journey and then some. I've written ahead to a friend of mine. We'll stay with her until we can organise more permanent accommodations. And I'll enrol Alexis in school as soon as we're settled. I thought we might tour a bit first. Travel is as good as an education I always say."

Castle looked heavenward. "I know you do."

"And you turned out just _fine_didn't you?" Martha countered. "Besides, you know our Alexis; there'll be patisseries and plays and art exhibitions and operas and the French countryside and she'll be bothering me to read a book. I don't know where she gets that from. I can't imagine Meredith ever being bookish and you certainly never learned a thing in your life on purpose."

They had reached the front hall by then. Castle held his daughter's coat by the collar, helping her slip her arms into it. He adjusted the collar and patted her head. She darted away to play amongst their luggage while he said goodbye to his mother.

"You take care of her son," Martha patted his cheek. "And don't do anything _stupid_."

"I love you too mother," he kissed her cheek.

She hugged him tightly. "Oh, my boy. You marry that girl and bring her over to Paris as soon as you can."

Alexis tugged at Kate's skirt. "Take care of daddy," she requested simply.

Kate nodded. "I promise."

Castle turned backwards and scooped his daughter into a hug from behind. He kissed her temple and she giggled as his unshaven chin tickled her cheeks. He had stooped to his knees and when Alexis wriggled out of his grasp, she turned to face him and flung her arms around his neck. "I don't want to go without you daddy."

"I don't want you to either," he pulled back and looked at her familiar blue eyes. "Promise me you'll be good for gram."

"I will I promise."

"And practice your French."

"I will. Every day, all the time."

"And remember to have some fun. That means outside, not with your head in a book."

"But reading is fun daddy."

He laughed. "I know it is, but it's good for you to try other things."

"Oh, but I will, I will. And I'll write to you every day to tell you all the things I'm trying."

"Good girl. I love you sweetheart," he kissed her.

Behind them, Martha pulled a reluctant Kate into a hug. "Goodbye dear. I hope it isn't too long until we see you again."

"I do too," she said earnestly. "Have a safe journey."

"I'm sure we will. Now, promise me some things. No, not some_thing_; I've got a whole list. Firstly, don't be too proud to take Richard's money. He has more than enough of it and he didn't work very hard to get it in the first place. Secondly, you look after my son. He's a good man Kate, but sometimes he needs someone sensible to keep him out of trouble. And lastly," Martha patted her hand, "He loves you my dear. And sometimes his heart is too big for his own good, so be gentle with him."

She couldn't think of a thing to say, so she nodded mutely. Martha released her hand. Behind them, Castle pulled Alexis up onto his shoulders and carried her down the stairs on his back. He set her to her feet at the curb as the car pulled up. He helped the driver with their luggage, which barely fit in the trunk, and promised to send the rest of their things express post. In the street, Kate stood beside him as he waved to his daughter, who was twisted in her seat to look behind her as they drove off. She nudged his shoulder and reached down to take his hand. He had been smiling for Alexis' benefit, but after they were gone his face fell. She tugged at his hand and led him, silently, back to the house.

It felt too empty after his family had left. The large rooms, sparser for all the belongings Martha had packed away in the dead of night, felt too spacious. He felt it as an ache in his chest. Suddenly weary, he squeezed her hand, pulling her into his arms and sighing in a dejected huff into her hair. She ran her hands up and down his back in an effort to comfort him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For all of this."

"I couldn't leave you," he choked back; "I would never leave you."

"I know," she quieted him, "And I'm glad for it."

They stood like that in the hall just in front of the closed front door for a long time until finally he stepped backwards, took her hand and led her upstairs. She paused at the doorway to his bedroom. A discarded tie lay draped over the chair beside the window and the covers were wrinkled, but otherwise it was neat. Somehow, she had expected his personal space to be more chaotic. He sank down on the mattress and started unlacing his shoes.

"I haven't slept," he confessed, "I couldn't, after you left."

"Neither have I," she said. "I spent all night packing."

"We should get some rest," he pulled off his socks. "Pulgatti's men are going to come for us after sundown and it'll be a long night's travel on that tug."

She nodded, seeing the practicality of it but still simultaneously dreading and thrilled by the prospect of such a domestic moment. She wasn't quite able to comprehend the intimacy of it. They had nothing left to hide, physically at least. It was the smaller, everyday secrets though that she feared. He had told her once that she was a mystery; she wondered, once he solved it, once there was only familiarity between them, would he still think so highly of her? It was a silly thought. She chided herself for it but she couldn't abandon it completely.

He patted the space beside him. "Come on, don't be modest."

"I'm not," she made a face at him and quickly crossed the room, sitting on the bed and unfastening her own shoes. She rolled her stockings off and began unbuttoning her dress. She pulled it over her shoulders and carefully lay it down on top of his tie. He was less careful with his clothing, leaving his shirt and slacks where they fell beside his shoes. She turned to look at him for a long moment.

"I don't want you to feel that you have to stay with me," she said at length, keeping the distance of the room between them. "I mean, I … I don't want you to do _this_," she gestured between them, "Because you feel you should, or because it seems that we've been thrown together out of necessity."

He laughed at her. She was offended, but he shook his head and continued grinning as he crossed the room and unfolded her arms, "No, no darling, don't be cross with me. I didn't mean anything by it. Perhaps we have been thrown together, as you say. Remember what I told you? Inescapable fate."

"So you _are_a hopeless romantic," she teased. Her tone had a little bite to it though; she was still mad at him for laughing at her very serious, hard fought honesty.

"What if I am?" he challenged, linking her arms behind his back and reaching down to take her face in his hands. "You're not a duty. Like I told you before, I love you Kate. I see you're going to take some convincing. That's ok, I'm happy to do it." He kissed her, "Believe me," he let his thumbs trace her cheeks and kissed her again, "There's nowhere I would rather be."

She nodded and let him lead her over to the bed. He pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, pulling her down against his side. "Now sleep, my lovely little cynic. I'd take you to bed properly, but I'm much too tired."

She yawned as though to echo his sentiment and burrowed into his side. He let his fingers stroke the bare skin of her shoulder absently as he lay awake staring at the ceiling. She was asleep in minutes, calmed by the solid warmth of his chest beneath her hand. Eventually, the steady rhythm of her breathing slowed his own. The sunlight peering through the curtains danced behind his eyelids.

* * *

><p>When they awoke, it was late afternoon. She was up first, and tried valiantly to remove herself from the bed without waking him but it was no use: in his sleep he had slid his arm more firmly around her waist. When she saw he was awake, she held his gaze but cocked her head to one side. "What is it?"<p>

"Nothing," he assured her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "Just… hi."

"Good morning," she bent to kiss him quickly. "Or … I guess it's afternoon."

"I guess it is. You can wash up in the bathroom if you'd like. You remember where it is?"

She nodded and left the bed, folding her dress over her arm and tiptoeing, completely unnecessarily, down the hall. When she returned, he was shaving over a bowl in the corner of the room.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Not really," he wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shower. "I would die for a coffee though."

She nodded. "Well, I can fix it while you finish here."

"My mother will kill me," he grinned at her, meeting her eyes in the mirror, "But what can you do?"

She smiled back. "You just said you'd die for it."

Ten minutes later, he appeared in the kitchen looking as kempt as he usually did. She was minding the coffee over the stove, concentrating on what she was doing and she didn't notice when he came up behind her. She jumped and shrieked, uncharacteristically, when his hands found a ticklish spot beneath her arms that he was becoming quite fond of. "Castle!" she admonished, turning her face upward towards his to give him a stern look, "I might've spilled the coffee."

He kissed her nose. "That _would _have been a disaster."

"Oh shh, get off," she flicked him with a dish towel, "Go wait in the study. I'll bring it in in a minute."

He nodded his consent just as the doorbell sounded in the hall. They both turned to stare in the direction of the noise.

"Are you expecting someone?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "Ryan'll come by after his shift, hopefully before Pulgatti's men get here, but if he doesn't… I was going to leave him instructions to manage my affairs in my absence, maybe pay the tab we've run up at Javier's. Anyway, he has a key."

"Well check who it is before you open the door," she reminded him.

"Don't suppose you have another one of those pistols stashed somewhere?" he asked casually.

"There's one somewhere in my bag," she said, "I'll find it if you like."

"I was only half-serious," he waved her off. "I'm sure it's nothing."

She held her breath for several moments after he disappeared, releasing it in a huge sigh when he opened the door. The voices that echoed through to the kitchen were familiar, both. She recognised the second suddenly, and burst into the hall, the coffee forgotten.

"Will," she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

Castle looked awkwardly between them, retreating behind her. "I'll go finish the coffee," he announced.

She nodded, absently, staring at her husband. Will looked much too large for the doorway he occupied; he always had. The sight was painfully familiar. She recovered herself, and called after Castle that they would be in the sitting room. She didn't want Will to see their work in the study. He hadn't ever explained the nature of his work for the senator but that didn't matter. She didn't trust him.

When they were seated on Castle's sofas, opposite each other, she tucked one ankle behind the other and took a breath. "What are you doing here Will?"

"Katie," he began, using the tone he had always used to appease her. "Don't be like that. I've given you the divorce and if you'll let me, I'd like to help you."

"I don't want the kind of help you're offering," she narrowed her eyes at him, even as his words tugged at that familiar place inside her chest. The years of affection between them were still there, always would be, but the new distance was there too. She was torn between both feelings.

"Oh my dear, you've always been so hot-headed," he smiled, fondly. "You're so rash when you're wounded. And you had every right to be, I'm quite sorry, you have to believe me. But you never gave me a chance to explain."

"What could you possibly say?" she twisted her fingers together, "I could never forgive you for it Will."

"Well, maybe not as my wife," he conceded, "But once you hear it, maybe you can still find the grace to forgive me as an old friend."

"Maybe," she relented. "I'll hear what you have to say."

"That's my girl."

She made a face. "Don't say that in front of Castle. He'll be quite jealous."

"Well," Will pondered over it for a second, "I suppose it'd be his right."

"Will," her eyes pleaded with him. "I'm sorry too. I … you weren't the only one who did wrong. I mean, you were wrong about the two of us; there was nothing untoward happening before … the night I left, not physically at least. But I … "

"You fell in love with him Katie. Yes, I know. I can see it."

She blushed, fiercely, more embarrassed than she had been in a long time. "Well yes, I suppose."

"Anyway, I didn't come here to say tearful goodbyes or decry your conduct. What's done is done, and I'm sure you never meant to hurt me just as I never meant to hurt you. I came to tell you why I did what I did, why I was taking his money. It started just after we were married. You had it in your head that you were going to find your mother's killer then too, you remember? Well, he wasn't too happy about it. He approached me, told me that if I loved you, if I cared for you at all, I'd put a stop to it. And if I did, he said he'd reward me, handsomely too; cash payments, those you saw, but letters of recommendation and other, less tangible kinds of help. He's been very good to us over the years Katie. I know that'll never excuse what he did. But he tried to make amends, in his way."

She glared at that. "You may be a good man Will. I believe you when you say you took his money and stayed quiet to protect me. But don't try to convince me that Senator Brown has a moral bone in his body. He's killed too many people, some of them right in front of me, for me to believe it. He's power-hungry and greedy and nothing more."

"Good and evil are not always simple," he reminded her. "But nevertheless, the deal is only good if I stop you from exposing his crimes and since I've been unsuccessful recently, I'm not about to win employee of the month. He's angry, incredibly angry. I'm sure he'll try to have you killed, if he hasn't already. I thought, well, I _hoped_you might be thinking of leaving the country, so I called in a favour or two. Here," he handed her a plain envelope. In it were travelling papers and some Canadian money. "With these, you shouldn't be stopped at the border. They're diplomatic papers. They can't detain you and they shouldn't think to question you too seriously. It'll help you get into Canada. The names are aliases of course, so you won't be officially recorded leaving. Once you get there, don't use them. Think up new ones. And don't write to anyone in New York, at least for a while. He'll be watching your friends and family for any hint of you until he's sure you're gone for good."

She stared at the envelope, stunned.

"Thank you," she finally managed to choke out. "This will … help. You're being awfully good about it Will."

"People get divorced," he shrugged. "I've seen it get nasty. I'm not sure we're required to hate each other just because we no longer love each other."

"I …" she stared at her hands before meeting his eyes. "Part of me still does love you Will, part of me always will. We grew up together; I've known you all my life. And I loved you so much for so long, I could never forget that."

"Thank you for saying it," he stood, pacing the carpet briefly while she collected herself, adjusting her skirt and standing too. "I know you mean it too, but that's not what I meant. It's ok to admit it. We were young and after a while we weren't very good at being married, at least, not to each other."

His hand was resting on her shoulder, "I should go. I know someone who might find it objectionable if I stay too long."

"He'll make do," she told him. "There's coffee, if you'd like."

"No, thank you. I have to be at work. Oh, and before I forget, this came for you in the mail after you left."

He handed her a parcel post-marked in Chicago. There was no return address on the underside. She set it down on the table rather than open it in front of him and showed him out the front door. She closed it behind him, both hands behind her back on the doorknob as she leant against the wood.

Castle was waiting for in his study when she went looking for him, the package cradled in one arm. Her coffee was still steaming on the opposite side of his desk. He was scrawling hurriedly on a notepad resting in his lap, his legs propped up on the mahogany wood. He looked up at her and wriggled his eyebrows. "An unexpected guest."

"Quite," she agreed.

"What did he want?"

"To explain and to help."

"Well?"

"The senator approached him just after we were married – I was investigating my mother's case then as well, albeit a lot less productively – and said he'd have me killed by Coonan too if Will didn't … stop me."

"I'm surprised he could."

"I was out of my mind with grief," she picked up her mug and rounded the desk, perching herself on the arm of his chair. He patted her leg, "You'd have to be darling. I don't think I could convince you to do a thing you didn't want to."

"And don't you ever try," she put her arm around his shoulders and leant closer, trying to read what he was writing. He spirited it out of her line of sight. "No, it's not ready yet. You'll have it as soon as it is. I promise."

She shrugged and sipped her coffee. "Suit yourself. He also gave us travelling papers. So forget the ship; we can cross the border legitimately wherever we like."

"And you don't think it's a trap?"

She was taken aback and pulled away from him, crossing her arm across her body protectively. "I… _yes_. Despite everything, I didn't ever believe in my heart that he would do what he did out of greed. I trust him."

"Don't be offended," he ran his hand along her thigh once, patting her knee, "If you trust him then I trust your judgement. I just wanted to know what you thought of the possibility."

"Well my instinct says he's genuine, but I almost don't trust myself these days," she let her weight rest against his shoulder and reached down to clasp his hand. "I suppose you're right. It could be a trap."

"Or," he countered, "I might be determined to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"How dangerous is travelling with Pulgatti's contact?" she asked.

"I've not a clue," he said. "But I'd much prefer to take the train. And you've known Will Sorenson for a very long time. If you can't read him, no one can."

"Then let's organise to catch the early morning train instead of the ship tonight," she ran a hand through his hair. Then, remembering the package, gestured to it. "Oh, and apparently this came in the mail for me after I left. It's from Chicago."

"Well go on and open it," he encouraged.

She did.

Inside was a letter and almost 20 small black notebooks like the ledger they had found in the senator's office; the contents spilled out across his desk.

She dived for the letter while he started flicking through the notebooks.

_Katherine, you couldn't possibly know me. I work for the New York Police Department and when I was younger, I made a terrible mistake, a mistake that I believe ultimately cost your mother her life. When I first heard you asking questions about a murder in an establishment in the city earlier this year, I thought it was fate, a chance to atone for my sins. I want to help in any way that I can, so please find enclosed a documented history of the Senator's criminal dealings._

"Castle," she breathed after her eyes moved over the closing (_Sincerely, Roy Montgomery_). She folded the letter. "This is it."

"What?"

"Our proof," she picked up the nearest notebook and skimmed through it. "It's all here. Years of racqueteering and rum running operations and hired assassins. The letter explains it all."

"The question is, what do we do with it?"

"We package it back up and hide it somewhere Ryan will find it," she said, "Quickly, before anyone knows we have it and before Pulgatti's men get here."

Castle hid the envelope in a false panel at the back of his desk and left a cryptic message for Ryan, "He'll understand. I've wrote him a note, told him to give it to the district attorney directly."

"Will that be safe for him?"

"He should be able to disguise it enough that it slips by unnoticed, but even if it doesn't, he can send someone in his stead, someone who doesn't know enough about any of it to be corrupted."

She seemed satisfied with that. "We still have to deal with Pulgatti."

"His family suffered an injustice at the hands of this man too," he reminded her, "And you're not responsible for what he does with the information, but you did tell him you would give it, in exchange for his help. I'd rather have a gangster on my side, especially when we're running from the law and a man who's killed more people than I can count on one hand."

"You want to give him the name tonight," she stated more than asked, and it had an accusatory edge to it.

"I do," he was standing in front of her and held her hands, "But it's your choice. If we don't tell him, I don't know what he'll do."

She nodded once, dropped his hands and paced over to the window. The street outside was filled with the long shadows of sunset; the star was sinking further and further south in the sky as the solstice approached. Maturing trees had littered the sidewalk with their bronze and orange leaves. She let her nose touch the glass. The quiet neighbourhood was full of the signs that winter was coming. She hugged her arms across her chest and felt his presence at her back, lingering as he always did. She sighed. "Everything changes," she said.

"Sometimes for the better," he reminded her.

"I feel as though my entire life is coming apart in my hands," she pulled the curtain closed again and stepped away from the window. Self-reflection was no excuse for carelessness. When she turned he stood his ground. Face to face, she watched as he took her hands.

"So what if it is?" he asked her. Like so many of their conversations, his words were laden with the burden of his full meaning.

"I don't know," she tried to pull her hands from his, but he didn't let her. She turned her head instead. "I'm tired of feeling as though we're in something we can't control. This is my _home_. I don't want to go."

He pressed her palms together, "We can make a new home Kate. I know you don't want to leave your father, your family. But in a few months, maybe even a year, he can come live with us if you'd like. And Lanie and Esposito can visit us. Javier'll have to see to the business anyway. Believe me, I know how it feels. The weight of it, it's not small. I was born here you know, and I love this city. I love that it's the biggest city in the world and yet everyone here feels like it belongs to them. And I know it's not your _choice_. I know you feel backed into a corner with only one escape, and you don't like fate. You've fought it all your life. I know all of that. But if your life is coming apart, you'll rebuild it, exactly how you want it. I promise you."

"And you'll be in it any way I like?" she was challenging him, daring him to take offense, that much was evident in her tone, but more than that, she was testing him. He knew it and ignored the gauntlet thrown.

"Even if you don't want me in it at all," he confirmed. "Any way you like, I promise that too."

She twisted her hands to hold his. "Thank you."

"Always."

* * *

><p>It was dark when the gangsters came for them. They lay down flat in the back of the truck, covered by blankets weighed down at the sides by their two small cases. He had expected to meet Pulgatti at the cathouse where he seemed to spend most of his time, but of course, they were taken back to the warehouse by the docks. This time, Pulgatti's men were less rough, but they were still flanked closely. Castle was pretty sure the weight that periodically brushed against his back was a weapon. He was privately terrified, but outwardly maintained his composure. Kate, as always, looked fearless. He secretly wondered if any of the usual things scared her. He knew she did have her fears; she hated being out of control, but she was stubborn in the face of the things she couldn't pre-empt. She met his eyes and he realised he was staring.<p>

He shrugged in answer to a brief, curious tilt of her head.

They were shown to a different part of the warehouse, an office lit by the warm glow of a kerosene lamp. Two worn armchairs sat along a wall lined with bookshelves that didn't contain any books. Several suspiciously shaped boxes hid just above eye level. The younger Pulgatti was seated at a desk in the corner but rose to greet them like old friends. He was charismatic, a born leader. The men accompanying him respected him enough to control their criminal natures.

Castle stepped backward and let Kate sit first. Pulgatti shook his hand and nodded in her direction.

"I'm sorry for the other day," he tapped his forehead, "I told them to scare some sense into yer, not rough you up. Believe me, I wouldn't wanna hurt a face like that Miss Beckett."

She folded her hands in her lap. "I'm fine."

"I heard you had some information for me," he leered at her, a mouth full of fillings exposed. "In exchange for safe passage."

"About that," she said, "I'll give you your information, but we'd prefer it if you could organise for someone to accompany us to the border on the train. We have travelling papers that won't be questioned and Castle is keen to settle in British Columbia."

"Friends," he explained.

The gangster looked from one to the other, mind quickly weighing his options. The air was thick with tension. Castle didn't like confusing men with trigger-happy fingers holding guns beneath the table. He wished, belatedly, that he could have put himself between Kate and Pulgatti. There was nothing for it though. At length, the other man clasped his hands atop his desk and grinned. "Fine, fine. I just want a name."

"Senator Brown," she said, coolly. "Walter Robert is his Christian name. Now, could you have your people take us to a hotel? There should be a train to Chicago in the morning and I'd like to be on it."

The ease with which she gave orders to dangerous men was one of the things he loved most about her and he told her so as soon as they were holed up in a single room in one of the city's less prestigious lodgings. Pulgatti's men stayed in the hall and guarded the door. She had removed the pistol from her purse and laid it in the top drawer of the dresser before undressing.

They both remained tense, the feat that needed to be executed in the following days at the forefront of their minds. It was one thing to have the papers and the train tickets and a plan; it was something else entirely to follow through. She saw his restlessness. He had pulled off his tie and his shoes, and was pacing the worn carpet on sock feet.

Stretching out against the sheets in her slip, she caught his attention, smiling as his eyes traversed the length of her body, finally meeting her eyes. She patted the space beside her. "We should rest."

"I know," he ran a hand over his face. "But I'm not sure I can."

"Then come here," she murmured, managing to sound seductive and soothing all at once. He sat beside her and she knelt behind him, sliding her hands down his shoulders and pulling his shirt from his trousers. She spoke with her lips pressed to the skin beside his ear. "There are other ways to spend the time."

"Oh my dear," he pulled off his socks and she scooted back to the other side of the bed to let him turn and face her. He brought a hand to her cheek, stroking it gently. "I'll never get tired of hearing you say it, but I'm afraid tonight the flesh might be willing but the mind is weak."

The allusion to Shakespeare drew a smile from her, mirthful rather than flirtatious. "Well, there are still other distractions," she crawled closer and settled herself into the crook of his shoulder, leaning up halfway to his mouth. He took her meaning and bent to kiss her. "What did you have in mind?"

"Tell me a story," she requested, simply, letting her palm trail along his chest. "A real story, something about you. Tell me about what you were like growing up, or the first time you kissed a girl or a secret you've never told anyone. If we're going to run away together, I want to know you properly."

He laughed at that. "Whereas before it would have been fine if we were strangers?"

She smiled, "You know what I mean. You tell me tales, all the time, about all the people we meet, but you so rarely tell them about yourself."

"That's because the people and stories I make up in my head are a lot more interesting than the ones that happen to me, except lately," he said, absently fingering patterns on her shoulder. He kissed her temple, and spoke with his lips still touching her hair, so she could feel the words blowing strands askew. "Ok. I'll tell you a story, but not about me. I'll tell you a story about you. And when I'm wrong, you correct me. And then you do the same for me."

She rearranged his shirt and underclothes until her cold fingers touched his stomach. "Ok," she agreed.

He squirmed a little beneath her. "Your hands are freezing."

"That's not a story about me," she chided.

He humoured her. He started with the story of how she had met Will, a touching if exaggerated tale of childhood infatuation. It was wildly off the mark. She rolled away from him, onto her back and laughed at the ceiling. "No, no," she said, "You are right though, we did meet as children, but Lanie was the one with a crush on him. He lived next door. We never really became friends until I rescued his ball from the house of a scary old man who lived down the street."

"Lanie had a crush on him?" he rolled on his side to search her face, "Was that ever awkward?"

"No, no," she shook her head against the pillow, hair pins digging into her scalp, reminding her to unpin them before sleeping, "To put it delicately, Lanie always moved through her men quickly. Besides, his parents never would have allowed it, once we were older. I think she broke his heart though," she shrugged, "We never talked about it. We were children."

"It's your turn," he prompted, "Tell me a story about myself, about how you imagine me."

"Well, your mother was an actress," she began, "And you've told me you grew up backstage. I imagine that you sat at her feet in a dressing room, probably clutching a stuffed animal, and drew pictures and told your toys stories. And got yourself into a lot of trouble," she added, "A proclivity that never ceased."

He ran his hand along her side, stopping to wiggle his finger over her true ribs. She twisted away and swatted at his hand.

"You're quite right," he told her, "Though I did have a few friends; the theatre cats that I always wanted to keep and later, a few of the other girls had children. I was always the oldest, which meant I could cast all the younger ones in the more boring roles in my elaborate games. But for the most part, I grew up between the knees of showgirls…"

She gave him a look, "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"And that's where I stayed," he bent over to kiss her, "For far too long. Mother started doing more legitimate theatre after a while. She really is talented, but with me to look after, she needed a steady pay check so she took whatever work she could get."

"I admire her," she told him. "She's a great woman. Most of the women in the movement are all talk, which is fine, _necessary_ even. But your mother actually _lives_it; equal rights I mean. She does as she likes and she always has."

He chuckled. "She'd be pleased to hear you put it like that. I suppose she was a little ahead of her time. Still is, if I were to hazard a guess about things I pretend not to know about, but slowly the world catches up with her. She thinks quite highly of you too, you know. I think she thinks you're much too good for me," he confided, drolly.

She sat up and began unpinning her hair, finally too uncomfortable to continue laying on it. She pulled the pins out one by one and held them in her teeth. "Maybe she's right," she said, her words garbled, "But then again," she removed the last pin from her hair. He reached out and brushed his fingers through the length of it. She turned back to look at him, "I suppose you'll do."

He moved to let her lay back down beside him, "I suppose I will."

They stared at each other in the light of the bedside lamp. There was a kind of wonder in it. He would call it fate, she thought, some kind of miracle that among the hundreds of thousands of people in the world they had found each other. She didn't usually entertain such fancies; she prided herself in being practical, of following the tangible, facts and proofs. But she did have to admit, looking at the path her life had taken, it seemed unlikely at the same time as it felt inevitable. She felt the ever present pull between them, a strange sort of gravity, swell; leaning forward, her lungs emptied in a soft rush as she leant forward, her hand reaching out to brush along his chin.

"Kate," his voice pulled her from her musings. "What are you thinking?"

She shook her head and smiled; it was a small secretive smile that already drove him mad. He couldn't stand not to know things. "Nothing," she smoothed the soft hairs at the nape of his neck with her fingers, "I'm glad to have you, that's all."

"I'm glad," he let his nose slide along hers. She felt stupidly sentimental and twisted away from him, laughing softly.

"What?" he asked, hands sliding around her waist as he curled up behind her. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because I…" she considered how to express it, "Because I'm happy with you, right now, when by all accounts I should be terrified. A man is trying to kill us, a murderer is protecting us, we're about to use false passports to enter another country illegally on the lam. I feel as though I'm in one of your books and yet, here we are."

He buried his face in her neck, teeth scraping against the skin delicately. "Maybe this is just the love scene," he told her.

"How does it end?" she asked him.

"I think I turn off that light and curl up beside you and we fall asleep," he murmured.

She made a noise of lazy contentment, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. "That sounds perfect."

He didn't sleep though. He waited until she was breathing evenly and stroked her hair a few times before getting up. There was a desk in the corner of the room. He took his notepad from his pocket and adjusted the lamp until the light was enough to write by, and took up his pen.

He had felt overly inspired since they had been nabbed by Pulgatti, scribbling at every spare opportunity. Events hadn't conspired to spare him very many, but the story was coming along quickly now that the muses were co-operating. He slipped into the page almost instantly, immersed in another world. It was better than sleep or sex for calming his mind. Writing brought a kind of narrow-minded focus that had annoyed the people closest to him his entire life. His mother complained that he had selective hearing and Meredith hadn't liked being less than the centre of his attentions for even a minute. Interruptions felt meddlesome at such times. Luckily, Kate slept through most of it and the words fell from the pen onto the page by something like divine grace.

She did stir though, and well before dawn. She called his name, but he didn't respond. Twisting towards the light, she held her hand up to shield her eyes and saw him writing in the corner. Smiling, she stood and stretched, and dutifully took the pile of finished sheets from beside him. She waited for him to protest, which he sometimes did, but when he didn't, she took them back to the bed and read beneath the covers, making corrections every so often when his mind had written words in the wrong order. When she had finished, the sun had started to peep over the horizon and the night chill had reached its worst. She wrapped the blanket around her and went back over to him, her hand gently squeezing at his shoulder.

He turned and looked up at her, blinking in surprise. "Good morning," she said quietly.

"Already," he observed, reaching up to cover her hand with his. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"You're the only reason I slept at all," she assured him, bending to kiss the top of his hair. "What I had a chance to read was good," she nodded towards the papers on the bed. "Brilliant even. I'm dying to know what happens next. Tell me."

"No," he leant backward as far as he could to study her face, "That's cheating. You'll have to wait until I write it to read it."

She made a face. "And here I thought there would be perks to sharing your bed."

He gave her a sly smile. "Are you saying there aren't?"

She ignored his remark, but her disapproval was for show and less-than-stern. "Come on. We'll miss the train."

They dressed in relative silence. The water from the sink was icy cold when he scrubbed his hands and his face, the blue ink of his pen slipping down the sink. The day break brought with it a sense of relief. They still had a long journey ahead, she knew, and she reminded herself of that again and again as she sat in front of the mirror pinning her hair, but it seemed that the hard part was over. No one knew where they were. She had said her goodbyes to Lanie the previous afternoon, her father was ignorant and his family had left. Even Will, who had given them the means to escape, didn't know where or when they would use it. She felt safe in their anonymity. Pulgatti's men knocked just as they finished dressing. They looked night-worn and weary. The journey to the station was also silent.

The only vulnerable point was when they boarded the train, and to combat this, they waited in the car outside the station until they had almost missed it. They were the last passengers to board and saw no one except the conductor. The steam engine lurched to life beneath them almost immediately after they were settled. The gangsters sat closest to the door, weapons clearly visible beneath their suit coats. She sat beside Castle, her hat drawn low over her eyes. When they had made it out of the city, she removed it and let her head rest against his shoulder.

* * *

><p>When they reached Chicago it was dusk. They changed trains and left their entourage behind. Castle had bought an evening newspaper. Across the front was a headline:<em>New York senator shot outside his Manhattan home<em>. She fingered it carefully, the newsprint blackening her fingers, but felt nothing. It wasn't the justice she had hoped for, certainly not the kind of justice her mother would want, but it was Biblical in its way. She only hoped that with Ryan's help, the evidence Roy Montgomery had sent them would exonerate the older Pulgatti.

Castle folded the paper after a cursory glance through it. She reached for it and held it in her lap. "Well that's that then," she dusted it with her palm.

"I'm disappointed really," he was joking, she could tell from the mischievous air his eyes adopted, "I always thought that if I went on the lam, it'd make the front page."

"Thankfully that honour seems to have escaped you," she remarked.

"I never thought this would be as simple as all's well that ends well," he told her after a moment of silence, "Not after we began to realise how deep it ran."

"You know it's not really that simple," she accused.

"No," he agreed. "But it's over."

The train was crunching to a halt.

"We're at the border," he explained as she craned her neck to stare out the window.

"Show time," she reached in her purse for their papers. He nodded, folded them and inspected them for several seconds before he placed them in his jacket pocket. "For the next ten hours, you're my wife," he grinned.

"Don't get used to it," she warned.

He slung his arm around her shoulders, "Would it be so awful?"

"I don't know," she smirked, "I've never been married to you. I've heard the reviews are mixed."

"I could say the same for you my dear."

She laughed. "I suppose you could."

Half an hour later, their papers had been checked, their false names recorded in official manifests, making their crime official and the steam engine began its climb into Canada. He gripped her hand as they set off, grinning ear to ear. She was smiling too, and let him pull her into a celebratory embrace.

"We did it," he leant back, relaxed, and pulled her back against him, kissing the top of her head.

"We still have to be careful," she cautioned, "Just because we've got a head start on them doesn't mean whoever he sent after us won't come. Even if he's dead, he had reach in a lot of criminal enterprises, all of which would be set for collapse once our evidence reaches the appropriate offices. But for now," she conceded, not wanting to crush his high spirits, just to curb their extremes, "Yes. We're halfway there."

"And from here, it's all an adventure," he told her.

Fondness tugged at the corners of her mouth. "It always will be with you, won't it?"

"If I can help it," he confirmed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Would you mind if I wrote for a while?"

She shook her head. "As long as I can read it when you're done."

"My toughest critic and my biggest fan," he sighed melodramatically. "Well, except for Alexis. Yes, of course you can read it. But you'll have to give me a head start."

She smiled and turned her face to the dark expanse beyond the window. "On your marks, get set, go," she sing-songed quietly. He was already scribbling in the notepad.

Kate reached into her pocket for the letter her mother had never finished writing and looked over its advice. Above them, the stars were winking in the sky. She let her head rest against the window, staring at the ancient light, her hands still resting against her mother's familiar script. She wondered what her mother would think of her life, such as it was. She would be proud of her dedication to the truth, that much she knew, but what of everything else? Of Castle and of Will, of Pulgatti and of their crimes? She shook off the introspective mood before it took too deep a hold.

The last words of her mother's letter stared up at her. _My darling daughter, you have nothing to fear. I've known your strength since you were barely a week old. You're stubborn, so make it work for you not against you. And be careful with your heart, Katie, but be brave with it._She folded the paper carefully and tucked back into her pocket. She stared over at Castle, absorbed in his writing, and her mouth felt heavy with the words but she didn't speak. He wouldn't have heard anyway. It wasn't exactly a shattering revelation, more a growing awareness of something she had known for a long time. She was comfortable with the secret for the present; it would keep.

"Remind me," she asked him, "That I have something to tell you."

"Hmm?" he looked up, uncomprehendingly.

She reached over, impulsively, and pushed his hair from his eyes. "Nothing, love. I'm sorry to interrupt."

"No, no, it's fine," he trailed off midsentence and she turned her attentions back to dark expanse beyond the glass.

As she listened to the scratching of his pen against paper and the train rocketed forward into the darkness, she slowly drifted towards sleep, feeling one chapter of her life close as another approached with each passing mile.

_End Part IV._


	6. Epilogue

Final little author's note: This story was an epic adventure for me. It was the first time I'd ever consciously sat down to write something so long, and it was the first time I really had an extended plot in mind when I started writing. (It's actually not the longest thing I've ever written, but it the longest thing I've written on purpose). I've always loved period pieces and historical AUs but I've never really been game enough to try one until now. This idea just wouldn't let go. Needless to say, I can only hope and pray we get a noir episode this season! Anyway, I did quite a lot of research and I wrote a little bit about the _making of_ here, if you're interested. (Wow, I know, I _really_ like to talk about myself, don't I?)

Thank you to everyone who's perused. I really am grateful for every reader and to those who commented, my special thanks. It's always nice to know that someone liked your silly little idea as much as you did. It's been a really long road, so I congratulate you on making it to the end. I hope this satisfies you curiosities and is befitting the rest of the tale.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Epilogue.<strong>_

_Canada. July, 1926._

There was a deep lake fifty miles from the little town, accessible only by a dirt logging track. He had been captivated by the local legend when they first arrived. At a small diner in the main street a local had told him the tale. Two lovers met on the shores of the lake, a man and a woman both drawn by its beauty. One evening, she was wading in the shallows, staring at the stars and thinking of her beau when, filled to bursting by loving so much, her heart escaped from her chest and sunk to the bottom of the lake. The woman could not swim, but desperate, she tried to follow it, struggling downward and downward until she was so far underwater the surface was indistinguishable from the night sky above. When she caught her heart, she was exhausted and the quiet of the lake bed was soothing. Unable to resist, she clasped her heart in her arms and gave into the tide. The man was distraught; he had lost his greatest treasure, her heart, to its depths. He spent years searching, but could never reach the lake bed. Even when he drowned trying, the currents and laws of physics returned his body to the surface. It appealed to his writerly sense of melodrama and Castle had taken to spinning variations on the tragic tale for travellers passing through. It had some truth behind it at least; no one had ever officially measured the depth of the lake. Many had tried, but it was so deep that their equipment failed. It was thought that it wasn't possible with current technologies.

In the winter, The Great White North lived up to its name. It was bitterly cold and the snow was so deep it made traversing the streets nearly impossible. She never felt truly warm the first year. But that was to be expected. It was the summer weather that surprised her. The heat was sweltering in their little town at the bottom of the valley and there was something about the air that made it impossible to cool down. It was thick and oppressive, like bathing in hot honey.

One particularly acrid day, they made the journey to the lake. They had to leave the car halfway along the hillside when the road got too rocky, and she was beginning to think the unofficial directions he had received at the diner were leading them astray when, after a steep incline, they reached a crest and below them the landscape unfolded, revealing its secrets. Shimmering into the distance lay the lake, the sunlight reflecting off the blue-grey water. At the horizon, a single tall peak, taller than from where they had come, cut up from out of the water. Behind it, the rest of the range was a green blur.

The path to the shore was carpeted by pine needles, and the vegetation thinned out as they descended opening onto a half mile of meadow before the shore started. Walking into the clearing, a little, rudimentary pier constructed of logs tied together by rope came into view. At the end was a small wooden boat with two oars.

Castle walked ahead to untie it while she kicked off her shoes. The ebb and flow of the pseudo-tide had, over centuries, weathered rocks into sand. It filled the spaces between her toes and crunched beneath her feet.

The makeshift dock was rough and bobbed about with each new gust of wind. He held out his hand to help her into their vessel.

"Yarr, welcome aboard m'lady," he did his best pirate.

She laughed and accepted his help, throwing out an arm to steady herself as the wind and water rocked the wood beneath their feet.

"Don't worry," he continued, "You'll soon find yer sea legs."

She took the oars before he even sat down. The sudden forward propulsion nearly sent him headfirst over the bow. She smirked and quirked an eyebrow, an unspoken_who's finding their sea legs now?_He settled himself onto the wooden seat quickly and gave her a brief, wounded look. She nudged his toes with hers until he gave up on the act.

When she started to tire, he took over and she let her hand trail through the water as he paddled. Even in the heat of summer, the water remained cool. She flicked some into his face mischievously and set about looking innocent when it hit him. His surprised expression soon mirrored her devilish one, and on the next stroke of the oars he brought a torrent of water up into the boat, soaking her skirt. She shrieked at the shock of it, then, laughing, lunged for a paddle to return the favour. The motion brought them into unexpected proximity, her body bent forward at the waist and their noses together within an inch. Her laughter faded into a small smile which widened when he kissed her.

She let her one hand rest against his neck, holding his face close and he brought a hand up to span her waist, fingers sliding along her floating ribs. Their lips and tongues met in a well-rehearsed dance. There had been hundreds of kisses like this one – stolen and given, illicit and public, lazy and loving and frenzied and fervent – but at the heart of it, they were all the same as the very first time he had kissed her in front of the blackboards in his study. There was the same fast breathing and racing heart and gooseflesh raising the hairs on her arms and there was the same utter wonderment at that afterwards. Time had made it routine, maybe less remarkable, but there was still something about it she couldn't explain. (She thought maybe he could, with his words; he couldn't, though not for want of trying.)

Somewhere in the midst of it, they both dropped their oars. They sank into oblivion, leaving only bubbles of escaping air in their place.

He pulled back and met her eyes, fingers rearranging the damp hair that was whipping at her cheeks in the wind and then, realising something was amiss, stared down at their empty hands.

The laughter was mutual and echoed along the walls of the delta.

They fell silent and he took her hands, squeezing.

"What's eating you love?"

She smiled.

"The captain of a ship can officiate a marriage at sea, correct?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Actually I think that's a very well-entrenched myth."

"_Castle_," she gave him a look.

"If this is a ploy to get a ring out of me, you know I'd buy you anything," he teased until she pinched him.

"Stop interrupting me," she flustered. "I'm trying to say something important."

"Yes ma'am," he rubbed his arm.

She pulled the chain out of her dress and fumbled with the clasp, finally prising free her mother's ring that she had carried for so long. She reached for his hand and pressed it into his palm. "I want you to give it to me."

"Are you asking me to marry you?" he looked at her with wide eyes.

"I'm telling you I love you, you sap. And I want you to put that ring on my finger and tell me you love me too."

"You know I do," his eyes were serious, finally. It was the first time she had ever told him she loved him in as many words; he had been mostly happy to just assume she did. He took her hand in both of his and slid the ring onto her finger. "I promise you I always will."

"That's enough of a marriage for me," she told him, leaning forward and kissing him softly. She crawled across the boat to sit beside him, letting him tuck her under his arm and press tiny kisses against her hairline.

"You love me huh?" he murmured against her temple. Her head was resting in the crook of his shoulder and his hand was stroking her hair at a languid pace. She yawned, warmed by the sun and comforted by his rhythmic ministrations.

"More than anybody else," she confirmed.

"Well, I've long suspected, but it's nice to hear you say it."

There was a long pause, punctuated by the wind stirring the water into little waves that lapped at the hull of the boat.

"How will we get back?" she wondered, shielding her eyes from the sun to appraise their distance from the shore. The small diamond in the ring caught the light as she did it, scattering sunbeams across their entwined shadows. His chest ached for how full it was.

Castle grinned at her, stood and offered her his hand.

There was a lake fifty miles from nowhere that was so deep no one had ever touched the bed. Its deepness defied measurement and looking into down into the water, it seemed limitless.

Katherine Beckett accepted his hand, took a deep breath and jumped.

_Fin._


End file.
